This vile duo, this anti-Batman and Robin, bounded toward my sweet Oceanside town to drag out all the bottom feeders- the spoiled rich kids, the habitually intoxicated, the neoconservatives- under the pretenses of promoting what they called ‘a new west coast sound;’ as if the music was to ignite our generation’s Bukowskian renaissance or the second coming of Christ himself. The more I researched Shwayze, the easier it became to mock him: BAM! His single, “Buzzin,” was featured in a Pontiac Vibe commercial; BOOM! MTV picked up the rights to a reality TV show that follows the recording of his debut; KA-BLAOW! He rhymed his name with “Patrick Schwayze.” And I had the task of actually promoting this garbage- perhaps garbage is a harsh term; “overtly commercial soundtrack to a half naked, ill-conceived Sunday keg binge” sums it aptly. Thus my egocentric bile arose, birthed painfully, acerbically, out of the womb of my gullet. I wracked my brain for the components in how I wanted to lay into this guy. Plotting my attack like I was plotting the invasion of Normandy. Should I shoot for a Long Beach Dub Allstars tie or go for a Coolio reference? Perhaps a nice “Malibu’s Most Wanted” joke? The closer my deadline loomed, the more nervous I became- what I thought was my inner bitch twitterpating with anticipation. Turns out it was actually nerves. The catch about seeing someone love what they do and enjoy notoriety in doing it- however many flaws, whatever nay-saying; and despite all the inefficiencies and questionable trends and personal defects- is that you turn into a champion for their continued success. And here I was cocked and ready to take him down. And why? Because the content of his music was questionable? Because in the history of my Masonic standards there hasn’t been music like this? Paul McCartney crooned, “I used to be cruel to my woman. I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved;” and women creamed their panties over him. He’s one of four on the high alter of all that is pop rock music? And Jesus, don’t get me started on the wrongs of Ricky Nelson and his “Travelin’ Man.”
And so, perhaps as a means of absolution, and definitely because the article was canned (Shwayze and Adler, in their infinite wisdom, cancelled their Santa Barbara appearance), I write to you, oh invisible internet audience, to weave the great story of a boy they call Shwayze: a kid living his dream. His album “drops” June 2k8. It’ll probably be in a Starbucks somewhere.