Live concert albums

This week's inductee into the "Overrated Hall of Fame" is ... the live concert album.

We credit card-wielding saps can be duped into buying a lot of unnecessary shit we don't need (cell phones that play movies), shit we'll never use (tickets to a West Virginia University National Championship game) or shit that doesn't work (cock size reducers; I'm telling you, they don't work. A hobbled Mrs. Bitters will confirm.)

But the live concert CD has got to rank right up there on the "Shit We Really Don't Need but Feel Compelled to Own Anyway" list.

I've never heard a concert album that can move me the way a regular album can. To begin with, most rock singers are not great vocalists. This is why we have to read the same story every time a band releases a new album. You know the story. It's always the epic tale of the eight months the band spent in the studio trying to capture that perfect sound. They talk about constant rewrites, creative disputes and even fistfights, which really just tranlates into, "Eddie can't sing for shit, and it took him 347 takes of each song to get something down that didn't sound like the painful yelps of a 12-year-old groupie getting tag-teamed after a show in Buffalo." Ever notice how every rock star makes a point of thanking the sound engineers and mixers when they win some meaningless award on one of the weekly award shows on the formerly relevant MTV? Well, I don't notice it either, to tell you the truth, because I haven't watched MTV since Michael Jackson still had people believing he liked pussy. But I bet I assume correctly.

You buy a studio album of a singer or group you love, and, if it's quality stuff, you listen to it until you know every note the lead guitarist plays, every hi-hat tap of the drummer, every grunt of the lead singer, and every ... okay, let's be honest, you don't notice the bass on any song that's not by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. (What's that old joke? What do you call a guy who likes to hang out with musicians? A bass player.) You know these songs better than you know the back of your own hand or, in your case, Mr. Pornhound, the tip of your jerked-raw pecker.

Then a year later, the band releases their much-hyped concert CD, and you are too easily swayed by the breathless raves of rock critics who insist that this live album is "groundbreaking" and "transplants you right into the blah blah blah." So you schlep out to Target and spend $12 to listen to a compilation of songs you already know by heart. Only none of the songs sound as good as they do on the studio albums, do they?

That's because the band's sound in concert just doesn't come across the same way on a CD. Unlike the forgiving atmosphere of the studio, they have to perform every song in one take, and they play every song a bit too fast due to the adrenaline rush of knowing that 15,000 adoring fans bought tickets to come out and worship them for their art and that at least half of those fans would eagerly gulp down a gooey post-concert dressing room salt-shake courtesy of a rock star overloaded on testosterone and Jack Daniels. The songs are also muddled by the ubiquitous crowd noise the sound mixers just have to include behind every song, lest we apparently dumb as shit listeners forget that the songs were recorded in concert.

This crowd noise not only affects the sound quality; it also serves the dual effect of making you jealous because you weren't there to enjoy all of the fan fun you hear the crowd having. I've never understood the appeal of the live album experience for this reason more than any other. You sit in your house and listen to thousands of people having more fun than you are at that moment. You're sitting in a dull living room with some History Channel show on mute, while you listen to ecstatic, screaming fans who know that drunken, thanks-for-springing-for-my-ticket sex will probably follow the show. The fans all left the show and ended their evening with two or three fingers rammed up a date's twat, which was already sopping wet from watching some 120-pound guitar whiz strut about the stage. You'll end your evening with two fingers scooping out the last remnants of the bottle of Jiff in your kitchen pantry.

The songs are also ruined by the oh-so-clever lyric changes the inspired singer sees fit to throw in. For instance, if the song has the name of any city in its lyrics, Mr. Rock and Roll Originality will no doubt insert the city where he's playing into that part of the song. And the crowd will of course whoop it up even more when they hear "Sweeeeet Hoooome Tall-a-hass-ee! ..." It's like hitting a patch of ice while cruising down the highway, or like hitting a speed bump in a dark parking lot, or like WVU running into Pitt while cruising to a national title game.

Live albums also contain too many songs with long, rambling guitar riffs that were not on the original studio album. Most of these riffs are not worth listening to because they are improvised, sloppy and interminable. Of course, the fans on the album roar their appreciation because the guitarist is probably covering up for this shitty playing by resorting to surefire audience-pleasing tricks like playing behind his back, with his teeth or between his legs. He's probably selling his passion and talent with squinted eyes and gritting teeth. Throw in some fancy lighting effects and a live crowd goes batshit crazy every time. But you at home, lacking in this visual splendor, suffer through six minutes of missed-note tedium, wondering what Hitler is yelling about this time on the History Channel. (Probably those goddamn Jews.)

Another trick the artists use is the neverending song. Instead of ending the song at the usual four minute mark, they feel the need to keep wowing their audience with a seemingly endless loop of choruses and song endings. Of course, the stoned, drunk-off-their-asses crowd keeps encouraging them, as if the band is rewarding them by dragging out the ending. Why four more choruses of "Pink Cadillac" are construed as a gift befuddles me.

Yes, the live album is a crock and a ripoff. And it's a slap in the face to any fan that didn't get to enjoy the live show. It's along the same bizarre lines of the post card. When you get a post card, do you think, "Oh, how nice! My good friends Mark and Jane are enjoying a much needed respite from their daily toils by spending a week in a warm, sunny Bahamas resort."

No, you think, "I'm standing at my mailbox in nine inches of snow while Mark is ramming nine inches of Mark up Jane's eager ass all night and day. My face is raw and chapped from another endless winter, and your genitals are raw and chafed from an endless week of fucking. Thanks for rubbing it in, ramrods."

So, don't buy the overrated live albums of your favorite bands. You'll just be disappointed. Save the money. In time, you might even save enough for a trip the Bahamas. But don't send me a postcard, asswipe. Just email me a picture of Jane's sweet ass. (Before you wear it out.)

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.