Bye, Bye, Bye…

The party’s over. The kitchen’s closed. The carnival’s movin’ onto the next town. What was once hip-hop-happenin’ is now go-go-gone. To put it into real English before we lose all of our readers, Carlye is no longer going to be contributing to Spin It. Though we’d like to pretend it’s because Car and Bri had a Days of Our Lives fight involving a baby outside of wedlock, a long-lost cousin and a backyard pool drowning with an inconspicuous murderer, it’s nothing of the sort. While Carlye will now be busy editing and adding punctuation to the Listen, Hear section, Bri-Guy will be taking over full time. Now, you’ll be getting a full dose of pretension, instead of a spoonful of snobby, exclamation-point-loving indie kid and a cup heaping with Phish-loving crazy sorority girl. But if we could do it all over again, would we pick each other for co-columnists? Fuck. No. This week, Carlye and Brian will dance their last dance by answering the question … Who would we have rather written the column with?

Carlye: Brian Rosenworcel from Guster

If there was a “Brian Olympics,” Rosenworcel would be the gold medalist, without a doubt. Nabbing the silver would be McKnight, and tied for bronze would be Backstreet Boys’ Littrell and Barry Watson. (He plays a character named Brian on the TV show What about Brian. Works for me.)

McGovern would be handing out the bouquets.

I’m not sure if Brian Rosenworcel, the visually shocking hand-drummer from Guster would be the best co-columnist, but fuck it – anyone who is too cool for drumsticks is automatically cooler than McGovs and myself, combined.

If BR was my partner in crime instead of BMcG, I would never have to hear another pretentious comment ever again. No more, “Arcade Fire? I was totally into them before any of you,” or, “Since when do you listen to Art Brut?” (You know you said that one, too.)

He’s funny, he’s Jewish, he’s good with his hands … Brian Rosenworcel is my new Brian. And by the way, McGovern, thanks for equating me to a monkey – the creature that evolved into humans. Just because I listen to a jam band or two doesn’t mean I’m musically prehistoric and uninvolved. Asshole.

Have fun reading BriBri’s columns from now on, kidlets. I promise to pop in the next time Kevin Barnes takes his pants off at a concert. Yeehoo!

Brian: Organ Grinder Monkey

The dying art of organ grinding has fallen out of prominence in the past century, but the tradition is an honorable one that deserves revitalization. Yes, if I could have gone back and done it all differently, I would have used the opportunity to push organ grinding and its cymbal-crashing monkeys back into the public consciousness.

I’d pick the Capuchin monkey over any other type of musician because it really understands what it means to be an artist. The organ grinder monkey knows that it’s not really about the music; it’s about expression and connection. It understands expression by the way it arhythmically bangs those tiny pieces of metal together. Screeching and jumping without any correlation to the organ grinding tune, the monkey takes content and transcends it out of the realm of form in a way that not even modern jazz has taken it. It understands that a connection is necessary to allow his expressive art to be appreciated by an audience. Going around street corners, asking politely for some spare change, hugging children – the monkey is a hustler.

Yes, unlike the likes of John Mayer or Chris Martin, the Capuchin monkey embodies what is to be a musician and an artist. Bad stand-up routines and Bono-impressions, neither one of these “musicians” are on the mark at all. The Capuchin shuns celebrity and only does what it finds truth in. Flinging its own feces? It all makes sense to the monkey and at least it doesn’t aim for the face (or the ears in the case of Johnny boy).

Sure, Carlye was fun, and occasionally jumped around street corners begging for coinage, but if she were an organ grinder monkey, the world could have been a better place. Yes, Missy Elliot provided us with oodles of fun times, what with her body-rocking beats and column namesake lyrics, but change is good; but it’d be better if involving prehensile tales.

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