EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind 2009's End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger would be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Since its inception, we've changed the rules some (no more gambling, all End Hits writers must attend a show against their will) but the concept remains the same.

Due to my inability to say no to a drunken bet, and the cruelty of our readers, I was forced to attend a Papa Roach concert this weekend. How bad was it? Well, in addition to watching "The Roach" in concert, I witnessed a middle-aged man finger his date against a wall. Yeah, that happened.

Click through if you dare.

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At SXSW, I got drunk. I know, shocking news, right? During my midday inebriation, Rob Simonsen (friend to End Hits) and I got to talking about competitive eating (see the drunk part) and how incredible burritos are (see the drunk part, again). Filled to the brim with Sparks (shameful, I know), I boasted that I could "easily eat six burritos" in one sitting. Sensing an opportunity to take advantage of a drunk man, Rob proposed a concert challenge: If I can eat six La Bonita burritos in 90 minutes, he would go to any concert of my choosing. If I failed, he'd pick a show for me to attend.

Upon sobering up, we quickly realized that I would die (FACT!) if I crammed a half dozen burritos into my body. So, for the sake of my poor wife, we edited the bet down to four burritos in an hour span. Last night I took this bet, and I lost. I plowed through 2.75 burritos, before ultimately giving in.

Now here's the good part. Rob will let you decide my fate. My concert options are listed below and the poll will be open until 5pm tomorrow. Whatever you vote for, I will attend.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind 2009's End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger would be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Since its inception, we've changed the rules some (no more gambling, all End Hits writers must attend a show against their will) but the concept remains the same.

Last month, Good Charlotte had the misfortune of getting sick, which lead to the cancellation of their Portland date that was to be my first Concert Challenge. At first, I thought God had been watching over me, sparing me from an entire evening of mall pop-punk hell with a band of tattooed and pierced twin brothers that canoodle with orange-colored LA celebutantes. But then I realized that God was just saving up for something far more punishing to my ears. And he was working through the soul of my now soulless editor, Ezra Caraeff.

“Here you go. It's all the member of Creed, but with a different singer.”

Oh dear God. No.

I guess I had it coming: Ezra had to endure a night of 311 songs performed by a cover band; the sweet-as-a-peach Raquel had her ears chewed off by death metal; Aris jammed out to Dark Star Orchestra, and Ned saw fucking Korn, Sevendust, and a few other bands beloved by society rejects/suburban bros. Of course my rescheduled challenge would be for Alter Bridge, a melodic modern oof-rock band who was the backbone to Creed, easily one of the most flaccid and trite rock bands I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing. I really should count my blessings, though, because at least Alter Bridge had some sense not to involve the diaphragm-busting meat turd, Scott Stapp (Scott Staph Infection is his punk name).

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EDITOR'S NOTE: Our End Hits Concert Challenge series continues, in which we send a music writer to a show against his or her will. This time we sent Aris Wales, our resident metal expert, to an evening with the king of all jam-tastic cover bands: the Dark Star Orchestra, which doesn't just play Grateful Dead tunes, but recreates, in exacting detail, set lists from specific concerts.

I love adventures. To me, there’s nothing better then stepping out of my comfort zone into unknown territory. Put me in any party, scene, or situation and I will adapt and make friends. However, after all these years with my chin confidently pointed at the sky, there is still one crowd I simply can’t identify with: hippies. I could never buy into peace, love, and understanding. The world is a scary place. Gobbling psychedelics and trying to ignore the cruelty of man never seemed appealing. After living in Eugene for three years, the rift between the flower people and I only grew. While I was there, I learned that “jam” is a four-letter word, patchwork clothes flatter no one, and that the deepest, most fiery depths of Hell most likely have live Phish concerts piping in 24/7.

Upon receiving word from Ezra “the Great Inquisitor” Ace that my torturous challenge was to attend a Dark Star Orchestra show, needless to say, I cringed a little. DSO is a Grateful Dead tribute band that plays two to three marathon sets a night, typically mirroring playlists from historic Dead shows. I assumed the crowd would be stocked with hippies young and old. So, in order to maintain sanity on this adventure, I chose to bring a 57-year-old “Deadhead” from my work. I figured he could be somewhat of an ambassador and answer any of my immediate questions. My dad also insisted on coming to ensure my review was unbiased.

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EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind 2009's End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger would be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Since its inception, we've changed the rules some (no more gambling, all End Hits writers must attend a show against their will) but the concept remains the same.

To God, the Devil, or whomever else this may concern; please forgive me for my musical racism. We can chalk it up to my woefully-untrained ears, disgustingly-blatant ignorance, or maybe even the fact that I was hugged too much as a child—but all black metal sounds the same to me.

And you know what. I'll take it even further (with some trepidation...) and say that maybe, it's because I'm a girl. Because it has been loosely suggested in the past that women generally latch onto words in music, while men gravitate towards the instrumentals. Which is why a metal show is one of the few places you will ever see a snaking line for the men's bathroom, while the women's stalls gape open and empty with barely a trace of toilet paper on the ground. And you know why? Because through the muck of that harsh, guttural growl and the onslaught of double bass drum kicks, you can't understand a single word those dudes are saying. Nope, not one.

And so it quickly became clear that my attendance at the Rotting Christ show Saturday night was to be more about the aesthetic, sensuous experience, as opposed to a direct relationship with the music; I can't confidently say that I liked what I was hearing, though it wasn't the worst thing. I'd even go insofar as to say—hopefully without sounding totally fucking pretentious—that observing human behavior in that showroom was somewhat of a cultural study. I would've never previously considered attending a five-band metal bill at the Hawthorne Theater if I wasn't forced to; it was raining. I wanted to make vegan corn chowder and listen to Ladies of the Canyon. I wanted a mellow evening after a long road trip back from SXSW. I wanted comfort and familiarity. But that wasn't happening, so I was to grab myself by the bootstraps and venture into the dark night...

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EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind 2009's End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger would be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Since its inception, we've changed the rules some (no more gambling, all End Hits writers must attend a show against their will) but the concept remains the same.

If you were wondering why there was no mail delivery, your bank was closed, and your grandmother mailed you a check for $5, it's because yesterday was the greatest of all (unofficial) holidays: 311 Day. The 11th of March is designated as 311 Day by fans wishing to pay tribute to the godawful bro-tastic musical act behind "Down" and that one terrible Cure cover (plus a bunch of other songs we were all forced to listen to on alt-rock radio but probably can't name now). In a fair and just world, the musical war criminals of 311 (Even P-Nut? Especially P-Nut!) would have had their instruments confiscated years ago.

Meanwhile, Andrew's Ave. is a Portland-via-Omaha funk band that grew up in the long amber colored energy shadow (That was my attempt at a 311 lyrical joke, how did I do?) of 311 and thought that 3/11/11 (technically, 31111 day) would be a good time to cover the band's Grassroots album in its entirety at the Alberta Street Public House. I decided to take my wife to the show under the promise that I will buy her 311 drinks.

So, how'd it go? Well, make no mistake, 311 made some repulsive music. Truly, truly unlistenable. But as it turns out Grassroots isn't the album with the hits on it, so I didn't know my "Nutsymptom" from my "Offbeat Bare Ass." It all sounded the same to my ears—a needless marriage of hard funk and harder rock, with some rapping tossed in, plus enough reggae to please those with Bob Marley posters on their frat house wall. Yet none of this was the fault of Andrew's Ave., who were endearingly sweet in their affection for 311. Clearly, this was the album for them growing up, and their tribute is not all that much different than watching my friends cover songs from Pinkerton or In the Aeroplane over the Sea. It boggles the mind, but if they think Grassroots is their own personal Pet Sounds, then I'm not here to tell them it's not. While the crowd was sparse, the band was webcasting the show back home to Omaha, and even went as far as to say "Hi Mom" to the camera. That means somewhere in Nebraska, there is a mother watching her song cover a 311 song on the other side of the country. That's kind of sweet. If anything, I owe Andrew's Ave another chance, a concert not stained by the lunkheaded rap-rock of 311.

"This guy here just got back from the 311 cruise, three full days of 311." Turns out that there was a real 311 superfan in attendance (other than the musicians on stage), perched in the front row and clearly enjoying himself more than anyone else in the room. I checked, and the 311 cruise is very real. I think our next concert challenge next to take place on the high seas. [alternate joke: Finally, a ship the Somalia pirates wouldn't hijack.]

Thanks to 42% of your vote, the initial voyage of our poorly-planned Worst. Night. Ever. series placed myself, and my very understanding better half, at the 8th Annual Pimps N Ho's Ball at Dante's. At least it wasn't the Eagles, right?

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FACT: Dinosaur Jr. are the finest exports from the great city of Amherst, Massachusetts. (Sorry Emily Dickinson, you lose.)
FACT: J Mascis has been continually soloing since 1984. It's just been one long guitar solo, man.
FACT: From the age of 14-21, I put Dinosaur Jr.'s "Not You Again" and Sebadoh's "Soul and Fire" and on every mixtape I made for a girl. (I am shocked I am still not a virgin.)
FACT: The recent Dinosaur Jr. releases—with the original lineup—are just as impressive as their earliest days. Something you can't say about most bands that have been kicking it for a quarter century.
FACT: We are giving away three pairs of tickets to see the band this Saturday night at the Wonder Ballroom.

To win your way into the Wonder Ballroom on Saturday, just comment below on why you think you deserve to attend this show . The best three (!) comments by Thursday at 10am will win a pair of tickets. If you don't want to chance it, tickets are still available here. Good luck and be sure to bring your earplugs (seriously), you're going to need them.

LISTEN:

Dinosaur Jr. - "I Want You To Know"

It's no secret that, when the dust settles, Dirty Projectors' masterful Bitte Orca will be the most acclaimed record of 2009. And with good reason, too, it's a lovely recording that pays little mind to genre restrictions, or traditional song structure, yet still meshes together with a graceful ease.

Currently touring on their Bitte Orca victory lap, the band will be at the Aladdin Theater on Tuesday, November 3rd, and we'd like to get you into the show. But that's not all, the kind souls at Domino Records will send a "Dirty Projectors Prize Package" your way as well. In addition to a pair of tickets to the Aladdin concert, you'll receive a LP copy of Bitte Orca, plus a poster to hang on your dorm room wall. Plus, after the show, Dave Longstreth and the rest of the band will toss back a round of Butterscotch Schnapps shots with you at the Bear Paw Inn*.

To take home this glorious package of awesomeness, just comment below on why you think you deserve to win. The best comment by Friday at noon (that's tomorrow) will take home the tickets, LP, and poster.

LISTEN:

Dirty Projectors - "Stillness Is the Move"

* This will never happen.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind The End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger of ours will be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Also, they must partake in this activity sober, alone, and stay for the entire show. Plus, the added salt to the wound comes in the form of a 500-word review to be published here.

Yes, it's cruel, but much like the firm hand of discipline we all longingly crave, these concert challenges keep our staff sharp and alert. It also makes us afraid to bet on anything. In the coming weeks and months, we'll all partake in a series of these dares, but for now, enjoy our second post of The End Hits Concert Challenge.

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I lost a bet. It might have had something to do with an Estelle Getty movie, but that is not important. What is important is that our Ned Lannamann thought it would be hilarious to send me off to see multiple Jammy Award winning band moe.

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EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind The End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger of ours will be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Also, they must partake in this activity sober, alone, and stay for the entire show. Plus, the added salt to the wound comes in the form of a 500-word review to be published here.

Yes, it's cruel, but much like the firm hand of discipline we all longingly crave, these concert challenges keep our staff sharp and alert. It also makes us afraid to bet on anything. In the coming weeks and months, we'll all partake in a series of these dares, but for now, enjoy our initial post of The End Hits Concert Challenge.

Did you have a pleasant weekend? The weather was great, wasn’t it? How was your Saturday night? No doubt you spent it with friends and loved ones, doing some sort of pleasurable activity. Guess what I did—I attended the Twiztid concert at the Roseland! For the uninitiated, Twiztid is a second-tier clown-rap band, ranking just below Insane Clown Posse on the Juggalo hierarchy. The Roseland became a gathering place of Juggalo young and old alike—though mostly young, with face paint to match their idols. In addition to Twiztid, there were four other bands on the bill—Boondox, Potluck, Prozak, and Moonshine Bandits—so Saturday’s four-hour show was a veritable marathon of clown-ninja-rap.So, yeah, I lost a bet. Otherwise I would never have gone to this show. I’ve never owned a Twiztid album. I’ve never tasted Faygo. I am definitely not a Juggalo. A “Juggalo” is what a fan of the Insane Clown Posse, or one of the other bands on the Psychopatic Records label, calls himself. There are also “Juggalettes,” which are female Juggalos, even though the majority of Clown Posse/Twiztid lyrics that deal with women speaks about them in violent terms. There were a handful of Juggalettes at the show, but there were also a few (a very small few) non-Juggalette girlfriends there to accompany their Juggalo boyfriends. Seeing them, I sadly realized that no one will ever love me enough to stand by me if I ever became a Juggalo.

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