BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL

Monday in the Park With Taylor

2009-09-10T10:31:00.011-04:00

In the autumn of 1999, we took the Hanson tour of New York City. We pressed our noses to the glass in the lobby of the Beacon Theater and lolled outside the Trump Towers Hotel and meandered around Central Park, just looking. To see the places that they saw and stand in the places where they stood in some dim hope of capturing a piece of them, of conjuring them out of thin air. And who knew? Maybe they really would be standing there when we arrived, recreating that photo shoot in Seventeen or having lunch and Planet Hollywood. It was New York City. Anything was possible.

To grow up in the suburbs north of Boston, as we did, and to be a Hanson fan, was to dream about what was happening in New York City. While you were taking the SAT, a bunch of other girls were waiting outside a hotel to talk to Taylor for the third time that day. While you were helping your mom carry bags of groceries into the house, some other girls were talking their way into the studio at TRL. While we watched and re-watched our DVDs and set the timers on our VCRs to capture late-night talk show appearances, other girls were there, in line, on the sidewalk. It drove us crazy, but mostly it filled us with dreamy longing.

We didn't want to be the New York Girls, necessarily. (There was something a little weird and dangerous about them. What kind of girls, after all, were allowed to skip that much school? To hang around for hours and hours? To appear so many times and in so many places�like magic, defying the laws of time and logic�that even their names and personalities were familiar to us?) But we wanted to know what they knew, to get close, and to answer the only question that ever mattered: What are Isaac, Taylor, and Zac really (really) like? We thought they knew. Or maybe we just thought they knew more than we knew. Even that was something.

So when we came to visit New York City on those occasional, incredible weekend trips�so close and yet so heartbreakingly far from Boston�we tried to crack all the codes of what it meant to be a New York Girl, to see all the places that mattered.

In Central Park, the leaves fell around us while we squinted at the black boulders, trying to decipher them as though, through some kind of amazing rock phrenology, they could yield secrets about our favorite band. Did Taylor stand on this one? Or on this one? Did he hang upside down from that tree�the one that crooks right in a very particular place. We had seen the photos in magazines. They had really stood there. Surely, if we were standing where they stood, they weren't so very far away from us.

To write this now, as someone who's lived in New York City for six years, it feels as though I'm talking about the pebbly surface of some foreign planet. Visiting Central Park, it's clear that all of the rocks look mostly alike, that all of our hunting for that rock�Taylor's rock�was futile and silly. We just wanted to say that we'd found it. The sleepy-eyed kids who sit in the smeary window at the Beacon Theater box office would have no idea who Hanson was if they were playing there that night, and Hanson themselves probably only visited Planet Hollywood once, and for a short time. My New York City, now, isn't the New York City I was searching for as a teenager. I'm not sure it ever existed.

You can imagine my surprise, then�my complete, mind-shattering surprise�when what happened happened. On a Monday holiday in 2009, while I was taking a lazy walk through Central Park.

I was with friends who were visiting from out of town, and if you know me, you know that I have a standard Central Park tour. Bethesda Terrace and the angel, the Boat House, the Alice statue. But instead of walking over to the East Side, my friends wanted to walk through The Ramble and up to Belvedere Castle�something that I almost never do. (When I first moved to New York, I got lost in The Ramble�the most heavily wooded, secluded part of Central Park�at sunset. I found my way out, but I spent enough time walking in circles and avoiding eye contact with enough sketchy men to sufficiently scare myself into sticking with brighter paths.) But I was with friends, so we went.

Walking down from the castle, I spotted someone standing farther along down the path. And the first tipoff was that he was wearing weird pants. Keep in mind that people wearing weird pants�and shirts, and fedoras, and earmuffs�is a fairly ordinary thing in New York City. To live here is to love the endless fashion show that parades by your door each day�boys in skirts, girls with their names shaved into the sides of their hair, injury-causing short-shorts, Uggs. It's fun to watch. But here's what I noticed about these pants: They were terrifyingly tight and, if my eyes weren't deceiving me, they were being worn by someone who wasn't female. Or maybe they were female? From that distance, it was just hard to tell.

As we got closer, I continued to inspect. At some point, long before it could match words to the ideas, my brain started to understand. Even with his back to me, he was so familiar. The way he stood, balanced on one leg. The head of shaggy hair. This is how well we all know him, how imprinted into the blueprints of our collective conscience is Jordan Taylor Hanson. It's as though that 18-year-old part of me is, and has always been waiting. And looking. Always looking. To catch a glimpse of him in a crowd. To run into him at the drug store. I knew who he was, for sure, before I even saw his face, but when I saw it, my reflex was so natural. And so insane.

I opened my mouth to say hello to him.

I did this not as though he was Taylor Hanson, but as though he was someone I know. As though I'd run into a friend in Central Park. As though he would smile and say, �Hey Laura, what are you doing out here today?�

I closed my mouth, remembering that Taylor doesn't actually know who I am, that just because this person rearranged the molecules of my youth, that doesn't mean that I did his.

And for an instant, I wondered if I'd dreamed him up. If so many years of searching had finally triggered it, a sublime hallucination wearing a grandpa sweater and three days of stubble. But then I checked the details around him and I knew I was wide awake, and so was he. Natalie stood beside him, wrangling a baby into the stroller. Above the path, a little boy and a little girl raced around on top of the rocks, chasing each other. Taylor shouted for them to please come down. No one recognized them. They were like any slightly harried family in the park that day. Having their outing. Enjoying the last fleeting moments of summer. To disturb that, even with just a hello, would have been tragic. And maybe too, I was worried about breaking the spell. A word between us and he might dissipate to dust. Or worse, maybe he'd be a lot more boring than I'd expect.

I kept walking. When I was well out of earshot, I sent messages to my girls back at home, the ones who helped me search for him that day so long ago, as the leaves fell on our heads, as we tried to tell one rock from another. All I told them was that I'd seen him. Yes, really him. With his family.

There was so much I didn't need to say, that they would just know, because they were there: How it was exactly as we'd imagined. He was just where we thought he'd be. Under the trees, by the big black boulders. He wasn't standing on top of them, but it didn't matter. Maybe that was a sign we missed, or a dream we'd misinterpreted, a thing we couldn't even begin to imagine when we were 16 and 17 and 18. That the person on the rock was a little girl in a pink tulle ballerina skirt with enormous plastic jewels stuck all over, that the flash of pale hair against the black�wasn't his at all.

Tinted Windows at the Highline Ballroom

2009-06-19T07:13:00.008-04:00

I hope to post a real review at some point, because this show deserved one, but for now I just wanted to post a few seconds of video from the Tinted Windows show at the Highline Ballroom in New York City, which was as wonderful and overwhelming as the show at The Bamboozle was soggy and low-key.

If you get a chance to see them at some point, go. They are a hoot, and, suddenly, a really amazing band.

Also, an aside: I've heard this a few times now, but someone commented on my Bamboozle photos that they were surprised to see Taylor looking so thin. Recent fan chatter, apparently, has focused on Taylor putting on weight or getting a belly, which is hilarious on about four levels. (1. Taylor is 6'1" and by most standards, a rail. 2. I love that the fans are so quick to point out the flaws in someone so attractive. A belly would make him... what? More like you? 3. Where are people even talking about these things, and who has time to do so? 4. I love that we're still talking about this. Taylor Hanson has four die-hard fans left, and they're all talking about his weight. Poor guy.)

Anyway, my point here is to say that Taylor is looking amazing right now, which is just as shallow and stupid as talking about his imaginary belly, I recognize. But even the dudes in the audience seemed a little taken aback by him. (To quote one: "Yeah, he is like. He is very. He is very good looking.")

But yeah. That's my update for today. The music is still good. Taylor is still dreamy. Carry on with your day.

Taylor Gets Wet: Tinted Windows at The Bamboozle

2009-05-09T09:15:00.007-04:00

At some point, I promised myself that I would never stand in line for Hanson. I would never sleep on a sidewalk, or forgo bathing for any amount of time, or stand in the rain with my teeth chattering, or risk disease or financial ruin or even tiredness. It's not because I lack devotion. (I mean, keep reading this blog. Seriously.) But what I really lack is patience and any tolerance for being uncomfortable. And let's be real here. You simply don't need to sleep on a sidewalk overnight to see Hanson anymore. In fact, I'm not sure you ever needed to. This is the miraculous truth my friends and I sorted out around 2001: If you show up 10 minutes before the show, showered and with a full stomach, they still let you in!

And because we're talking about Hanson here�my favorite band and yours, the one known for being thrown off the stage by the venue six songs into their set for violating curfew�they often still let you in if you're an hour late. In short, I don't fuss over Hanson anymore.

Except, you know, when I do.

I've broken those rules exactly twice that I can think of in all my years of Hanson fannishness�once in a town called Exeter, New Hampshire for an event called Seacoast Idol, which I've never written about because it was so ridiculous and surreal that I'm still not sure it actually happened. (And if the copious stink of pot coming from backstage was any indication, Hanson's not either.) And then there was the ill-advised hysteria that happened last weekend.

Oh, I know. I wish I could blame this one on my misguided youth. But I clearly can't, as the weird water stains on my very grownup trench coat will testify.

So, we went to see Tinted Windows at The Bamboozle, a music festival held in a parking lot in New Jersey, headlined by No Doubt and featuring absolutely no one else of note. I say this as a card-carrying Old Person, because the 5 zillion kids in attendance clearly knew who they were looking at, and even if they didn't, I was convinced. And my friends instructed me to arrive approximately four hours early.

FOUR HOURS.

To this very moment, I have no idea why I arrived four hours early. In fact, let's ask my friends: Why did you make me show up four hours early? It's not like I live some fathomless distance from Giants Stadium or that Taylor Hanson made a special appearance in the morning to hand out croissants. In fact, when I arrived at this event, Taylor had probably only been in bed for about an hour. In fact, before I scraped myself out of my apartment and boarded that New Jersey Transit bus, I had only been in bed for about an hour.

But I had missed the first Tinted Windows show in New York City. (I was in Croatia. That long story is captured elsewhere.) And I figured this was maybe worth it. Even at that hour of the morning. Even in the rain.

It rained from the moment we arrived outside the gates�soggy and relentless�until the moment Taylor Hanson stepped on the stage. I could make insinuations here about the Power of Taylor and how he constantly moves with a patch of blue, cloudless sky above his big shaggy head. (It matches his eyes, as I'm sure he's well aware.) But honestly, the sun never came completely out and the rain never really stopped. It was more like a hopeful brightening in the atmosphere than anything else; you might need Isaac and Zac for full sun, to truly make the clouds part. Still, though, Taylor wore sunglasses. Maybe because he's too cool to live and maybe because he's just protecting himself from all the UV radiating from Planet Taylor.

Anyway.

By the time Tinted Windows took the stage, I was a soggy mess. And after about three bars of music, I didn't really care. I cared immediately after they left the stage, when I suddenly realized that I was soaked through every layer of my clothes, that it was raining again, and that I was starving. But while they played, all was well with the world.

So, Tinted Windows. You know what? They're great. The songs are fun and quick and frothy and the band obviously plays so well. And Taylor is as he always is�gorgeous, charmingly awkward, dressed like a fool, and singing like it's going out of style. Others have made light of his inclusion in this project, but really, he's the only thing that makes it work. There's no one else on stage who's pretty enough or guileless enough to sell such pithy fare, and certainly none of them can hit notes like Taylor can, even if the music doesn't seem to be an immediate match for Taylor's voice. (Imagine Michael Jackson fronting Cheap Trick. Yeah.) But somehow, it holds together, even if Taylor is still a little unsure how to go about being a frontman. If anything, what Tinted Windows could use is a full dose of Taylor's weird rockstar magic. The crummy thing, though, is that magic surfaces only occasionally, and only when Taylor is totally comfortable, in front of a crowd that is beside itself with hysteria, and about two hours into the set. Which means, of course, that it may never happen during Tinted Windows. We've all seen it�that moment where something switches over for him. It is usually the moment where he steps away from his piano, gets dangerously close to the edge of the stage. His awkwardness evaporates. He stops caring so much. And he is, suddenly, a truly great performer. But unfortunately for Tinted Windows, Taylor isn't a great performer every day of the year. On the flip side, he is a great singer every day of the year, and he's sexy as hell before he even opens his mouth, and that's what Tinted Windows is living off of right now. It's fun and a nice departure�Taylor has never played with a tighter band�but you'll find none of the breathless giddiness at a Tinted Windows show that you will at your average Hanson concert.

Still, though, Tinted Windows is such fun. James Iha could not possibly play any better, Adam Schlesinger is mellow and solid as ever, and Bun E. Carlos just looks like he's having a blast. The story, though�and I don't think this is unfair, despite my clear Hansony bias�is all about Taylor. As the set began, the front of the stage was aswarm with press photographers, and I assure you that few lenses were aimed at Adam Schlesinger. Maybe it's curiosity about how he turned out. (Cute.) Maybe it's the shear weirdness of the project. (Definite.) And maybe it's just another chapter in the same story that's played out since the beginning of Taylor's career. (Pretty boy sings pop songs and the girls all waited in the rain.)

Taylor Hanson Is Cool. Groan.

2009-03-09T22:41:00.010-04:00

When I saw Hanson last fall at the Nokia Theater in New York City, I noticed two out-of-the ordinary things. First, Adam Schlesinger was standing five feet behind us for the entire set. Second of all, the place was filled with dudes.

The former was cool�I love Fountains of Wayne as much as the next pop-addled post-grad�but not altogether surprising. There have been rumors for years that Adam was on the short list of producers considered for Middle of Nowhere. (Imagine, for a minute, what that album would have sounded like. Hell, I�d still like to hear it.) Plus, he also wrote a Christmas song for Snowed In that Hanson eventually rejected because they thought the concept was too immature. It�s called �I Want an Alien for Christmas� and Fountains of Wayne recorded it themselves shortly thereafter. It�s quirky and fun and what Hanson probably couldn�t articulate at the time�because who can, when you�re 14�is that the band probably couldn�t have performed it with any of the necessary cheek. Actually, cheek is still not quite Hanson�s specialty, but I get ahead of myself. But in short, it wasn�t all that weird seeing Adam at a Hanson show.

What was weirder was the second thing�the shear number of youngish, skinny-jeaned, modishly-coiffed boys loafing around the place. Now, I have nothing against youngish, skinny-jeaned, modishly-coifed boys. Because hey, I love the big blond one up front who�s busy forgetting the lyrics to the song he wrote. So why wouldn�t I love this motley collection?

Well. Here�s why. I don�t want to share.

Hanson is mine. And they�ve been mine since before I had an SAT score or a driver�s license. And for most of my years on this particular side of the fan fence, Hanson has not been cool and has not been suitable for anyone who is or pretends to be cool. So to suddenly seen these poor bastions of cool�the specimen known as the sadly posing early-twenty-something New York City male music fan�my heart kinda broke. For them, yes, because they�ll never know what we know. (Not until they�ve sat on a sidewalk for 12 hours or grown a vagina.) But also for us. Because, at this very late date in Hanson history, dear fellow fan, our ranks have been polluted.

Hanson has been around for so long and has made so much good music and are so much less depressing than the Jonas Brothers that they�ve actually become sort of cool.

Of course, Hanson themselves would probably see it the other way around. They undoubtedly see us as the pollution and the simpering male contingent as their late-arriving-but-true-target-demographic. What men love, after all, is still and will forever be more important, more legitimate, more artistically valid than what women love. Add that poison cherry to your bitter sundae, Hanson fan. You know, right after you spend a few minutes contemplating the fact that they married three of us.

And in a way, Taylor�s solo project�Tinted Windows, the single most exciting news to come out of camp Hanson since the release of Underneath�is, in a way, the fruition of all that. Hanson�s clamoring for legitimate musical friends, good notice from the mainstream press, more diverse fans, dissociation from its teenie bopper image. Tinted Windows grants Hanson�or at least Taylor�those things and more. And I don�t mean to be totally grumpy about it. These things are great for Hanson, whose fan base dwindles more and more as the years pass. (I went to a show at a small theater in Asbury Park, New Jersey a few months ago that was a quarter full. It was startling. And awfully quiet.) It�s also a good thing for Taylor, who, let�s be real here, could occasionally use some new context. Ike and Zac are splendid. They give to Taylor what only family can�subtle contrast, the inexplicable voodoo of history and blood. But he�s musically out of their league as both a singer and a songwriter, and he always has been. And let me horrify you some more: He probably knows it. And they probably do too.

It�s funny, of course, that the music created by Taylor�s new superband would seem so inconsequential. The first Tinted Windows songs are fun but nothing more. The guitars roar, they do. And the production makes the most of Taylor�s prickly tenor. But nothing I�ve heard so far soars like �Runaway Run� or weeps like �Believe� or jumps out of the speakers like �Something Going Round�. But then, that stuff really isn�t all that cool, is it.

What Went Out and Came Back

2008-09-12T15:48:00.002-04:00

Party Like It's 1997, originally uploaded by Miss Laura M..

Guess what I'm pulling out of the closet this fall? Of course, at this point in my life, I don't think I'll be wearing them with lime green flair-leg corduroys or an orange plaid wool peacoat that's four sizes too big. But how happy am I that I saved these? (I bet Zac still has his, too.)

For another blast from the past, please visit Le Blog Laura, where you can read about visiting a certain brown split-level house on a certain heavily-wooded little street in a certain dusty midwestern town.

Who wrote this song? Oh, right. You did.

2008-08-13T11:45:00.003-04:00

Oh Taylor.

On the Horizon

2008-06-21T03:33:00.001-04:00

Horizon, originally uploaded by Miss Laura M..

Your favorite band and mine (besides the Jonas Brothers, I mean) likes to talk a lot about passion and destiny. Five months ago, I decided to follow some of my own and I moved to France.

(Which also means that I missed a Hanson concert in New Jersey. On my birthday. But no matter.)

There will be updates to this blog because a) Hanson refuses to go away, and b) I refuse to stop being fascinated by them. But for now, I'm writing about other things. If you'd like to tune in, please check out Le Blog Laura. It details adventures of another sort.

Be well,
Laura

Laura Takes the Walk

2007-10-13T14:04:00.001-04:00

Taylor Hanson is Told Off, originally uploaded by Miss Laura M..

There is this moment when it all makes perfect sense. One minute I am walking in the street in Charlotte, North Carolina, and the next, I am watching Taylor Hanson get told off by an angry traffic cop.

He�s barefoot as this happens. He�s barefoot and wearing a Knight Rider-esque butterscotch leather jacket. And Raybans. He�s carrying a bullhorn.

And I want to call all those people immediately, the dozens and dozens who have asked, �Why Hanson?� Because I finally know the answer. The real answer, not the one I�ve been giving for years and years, the helpless shrug, the pointed, �Because they�re good.� And the answer is because they�re crazy because their fans are crazy because they�re crazy because their fans are crazy. It�s that simple. And I will rely on no documentary for this conclusion. I stand agape, hands shaking so hard that I can�t even compose the shot on my camera�s LCD screen, because I saw it rise up strange and obvious, right across the median.

The walk starts behind the busses and we�re on time but not early and the sun is slanted and autumnal but some girls opt for tank tops anyway, all the better to show off their rapidly fading summer tans. I am not at all a Southern girl in my fall coat with the big buttons, my gigantic purse. I have come to seduce no one, or maybe I have just fully come to terms with the fact that there is no one left to seduce, and there may not have been in the first place. Clearly these girls are about seven or eight concerts away from any similar realization.

As always, with anything involving Hanson, there is waiting. Kate and Casey discuss the ever-evolving hotness of Zac. Someone hands me a sticker. And then Taylor Hanson shows up with a bullhorn and a poster and some shoes and the crowd scatters, fast, and surrounds him, and he talks about AIDS in Africa.

The connection between these walks, and poverty and AIDS in Africa, and Hanson, and shoes, is sort of tenuous in my mind, and yet I have trouble criticizing the whole crazy thing because it�s obviously so heartfelt. Taylor means this shit, whatever it is that he means. I�m being partly facetious here: It�s no secret that poverty and AIDS in Africa are deeply interconnected. I still don�t totally get what the shoes have to do with it, though, although I admire and appreciate what Taylor is saying through that bullhorn (it�s red, like his tambourine): Get up off your ass and do something, even if it�s something small. And if you have enough energy and passion to wait for 14 hours on a freezing concrete sidewalk to see Hanson, if you can haul yourself to 36 shows in 12 different states, you have enough to change the world. He�s absolutely right about that, even if the complete mission statement doesn�t exactly fit on an index card.

So we walk. Funny thing, though. Charlotte, North Carolina is not exactly a comfortable city in which to walk. The route is sidewalk-free and full of scrubby weeds and construction signs, and the crowd almost immediately turns The Walk into The Run in an attempt to get some face time with Taylor and Zac, who are at the front. The crowd spills into the street, slowing traffic. Even my companions, who pride themselves on their non-fannish attitude toward both life and Hanson, decide to take a shortcut across a RiteAid parking lot in order to cut Tay off at the pass.

Halfway through, though, Taylor stops at a street corner and asks everyone to take off their shoes so that we might get a sense of what impoverished children deal with every day, but the broken glass at my feet proves more persuasive than JT and my ballerina flats stay put. Plus, this part smacks weirdly of new age-y Christian propaganda to my boundlessly cynical mind, and as a good Catholic Yankee living in an industrialized yet polluted nation, I decide not to increase my risk of plantar warts or typhus or whatever, and I remain sensibly shod on the street of Charlotte. Although again, I get the symbolic intended point. This is when the cop starts yelling at Taylor.

The cop is stopped at a red light in his cruiser and he sees this ginormous straggling business of us, and a kid with a bullhorn, so he gets out. And then he does the awesomest thing ever. He raises his arm and points his finger and goes, �I want to talk to you right now. You. YES, YOU.�

By �you� he unmistakably means Jordan Taylor Hanson.

So Jordan Taylor Hanson goes over, and he is, just to re-emphasize, barefoot. And wearing Raybans. And in a butterscotch Knight Rider-esque leather jacket. And flyaway-haired and huge-headed and so obviously, painfully Taylor Hanson in this moment that, for the first time in my life, I realize how physically strange he is, how his bigness is awkward when stood beside real human people, how he is jangly-limbed and weird on the eyes.

And then something unbelievable happens. Taylor does not apologize to the furious policeman. He does not make any immediate promises about rectifying the problem (getting a permit; clearing people out of the street, which even I can recognize is necessary). He does not even recognize that there is, in fact any problem.

Taylor Hanson starts talking to this buzz-cut, Southern, Charlotte traffic cop about AIDS in Africa.

It is immediately obvious that this whole spectacle is somehow directly related to the fact that Taylor has never been to real school, and yet, in the moment, I can not pinpoint exactly how. All I know is that my instinct is clear: I want to dart out into the street, to put myself between Taylor and the policeman and calmly explain things to both parties, to act as rockstar-police liaison and interpreter. Mostly, though, I want to protect this very clueless boy, not from the cop, but from himself. And then I want to warn him that the fashion police are coming for him next.

By some miracle, no one is arrested. Later, we will discuss at length how cool it would have been to see Taylor stuffed, screaming, into the back of the cruiser, limbs flailing like a day-old doe. An arrest and an embolism in one week? Rock and roll, baby.

By the time Taylor and the good officer part ways, some people in the crowd are shouting some nonsense about the right to assemble and, again, impoverished children in Africa. Taylor uses the bullhorn then to tell people to get out of the street, more or less in those words.

This is when Ike runs in. Somehow a brisk city walk seems ill-advised when you�re still bandaged wrist to shoulder from life-saving cardiovascular surgery, but so does playing guitar for 600 screaming young women, so what do I know. I admire, though, his ability to play it all low-key and subtle. Almost no one sees him as he enters the throng and makes his way to the front.

We arrive back at the venue to find that the officer who spoke to Taylor has called for backup. We�re greeted by three more cops� on Rollerblades. Clearly a riot was expected. They do admonish, however, in the sternest voices they can muster, that we are to stay on the sidewalk and only on the sidewalk.

Taylors offers some parting words to the crowd, including the brazen statement that we �really weren�t being all that unsafe.� Isaac then takes the bullhorn out of his hands and says, very Dad-like, �Get off. The street. Thank you.�

And then someone stamps my hand and it�s over and I�m wondering what in the world I just did and why, but I definitely know, at least, that it involves impoverished children in Africa and shoes and possibly a bullhorn. But somehow, too, I understand it. Because I have watched these boys long enough to understand their mangled, innocent, and ultimately good-hearted and right-headed intentions, even if the way to them is paved with every kind of awkwardness. Is it all that different with their music or their fans?

And if you need to risk arrest for anything, maybe Taylor is right. Better that it�s for something important and huge�a single starving child�than for a traffic violation on sleepy city street.

Mmmbopolism?

2007-10-05T00:02:00.001-04:00

Isaac Hanson Plays Some Slammin Guitar, originally uploaded by Miss Laura M..

Get well soon, Ike. And lay off the damn cigarettes, if they're anything more than just a dim memory of your storied, unmarried, strangely-coiffed past.

The Right in All Our Fighting?

2007-08-11T08:25:00.000-04:00

Hanson fans are so grumpy. Whether we're fighting about Natalie on HansonSecret or debating venue sleepover policies on Hanson.net, we're always breaking a major collective sweat about something. I guess it's not surprising, given that everyone basically hates us, but must we always take our alienation out on each other?

Mostly, though, we take it out on Hanson. Who hasn't cramped their scroll finger reading about the horrors of Are You Listening, or Taylor's current facial hair arrangement, or the band's stupid contests and clunky songs? As much as the endless message board threads and LiveJournal comments raise my ire (grumpiness about grumpiness � my favorite kind), I also understand perfectly well that I'm part of the problem.

I complain about Hanson all the time.

I think Are You Listening is hypocritical and moronic, I'm cynical about the band's charity work, and I think the documentary Strong Enough to Break was hilarious, amateurish, and deeply self-serving. It's not just that I feel entitled to these opinions. I see them as basic truth. In other words, in all matters concerning Hanson, I'm always right.

I don't believe in that rightness because I know more about Hanson � more than is totally healthy in some instances � than other people. I believe that I'm right because I deeply, deeply love Hanson. And loving Hanson entitles me to believe � and say � anything I damn well please about them. Even if it's sort of mean. (Isaac has a squinty eye.) Or hyperbole. (Zac has a terrible singing voice.) Or just misguided. (Taylor got married for the wrong reasons.) It's not fair. It's not logical. But very little about being a Hanson fan is. Which brings me to another thing: This web site.

At this point in the mellow golden years of my fandom, I don't write very often about how much I love Hanson. I assume, dear Fanson, that the existence of this little cybershrine is proof enough of that. And also, who wants to read about how cute Taylor is? You know he's cute. You have four copies of Totally Taylor in your attic. You want to talk about the music? The music changed my life and altered my outlook the world, my generation, and my place in both. But how many times can you say that without boring everyone into a coma or sounding like one of those circa-1997 Anglefire web sites whose sole editorial mission was reporting the color of Taylor's latest toothbrush?

I don't think the moody fans on the message boards are much different. Their love is proclaimed. It is tattooed on their backs and stolen from their bank accounts and carved across their consciousnesses.

In light that, why are we not allowed to call Zac out on that dirty t-shirt?

Too Good for the Running Man?

2007-08-05T09:28:00.001-04:00

If there is one song on The Walk that poses any sort of genuine conundrum — and musical conundrums are rare indeed in Hansonland, the chorus of Lonely Again aside — it's Running Man. Here's why: It's really good, and it shouldn't be.

There is something deeply wrong with Running Man, with its obsessively catchy hook and Zac's strangled-cat vocal. It is cheeseball to the point of idiocy, like something Greg would have sung solo into a skinny mic on one of those mysterious episode-ending "variety show performances" on The Brady Bunch. And yet Running Man is possibly the best song on an already strong album, with the qualifier thrown in only because of Something Going 'Round.

So what's the problem here? Isn't Zac Hanson allowed to just write a great song, end of story?

Actually, no. He's not, as he's shown us over and over again with such draggy nonmasterpieces as The Walk and the brain cell-obliterating Fire On the Mountain. Running Man is such an anomaly that I initially convinced myself that Taylor wrote it and then kicked the lead vocal over to baby Zac for some deranged brotherly, religious, or debt-settling reason.

That's clearly not the case, as the liner notes have shown. (There is much to say here about listening to an album roughly 800 times before the liner notes have even made it to the printer, but alas, that is a whole other essay.) Zac wrote Running Man, to be sure, but I was also right to assume that he had help.

Running Man is a co-write with Bleu, the criminally underappreciated, copiously sideburned songster whose springy, melody-loaded albums could teach Zac a thing or seven about keeping things bright and hooky, and it sounds like they did. It's also interesting that a decade plus of collaboration and cohabitation with Jordan Taylor Hanson could not make Zac into an interesting songwriter but a couple of sessions with Bleu could. It's a testament to how good Hanson can be when their music is infused with new, nonrelated blood, but it's also sort of fascinating that Zac had to go outside of his family to be as good as someone in his family.

They Were Cartoons Anyway

2007-07-30T22:11:00.000-04:00

Why has Hanson never been on The Simpsons? This seems like such a no-brainer to me, given that Hanson is such a one-stop source of endless and obvious comedy. But alas, the boys have yet to get to Springfield. Until today, that is.

Inspired by the amazing Order of the Simpsons, I give you Isaac, Taylor, and Zachary Simpson:

Of course, please do stop by the Simpsons movie web site and generate your own Simpsonfolk. Because that's clearly a fun thing to do.

Crazy/Ugly

2007-05-27T09:34:00.000-04:00

Bright and Beautiful is undergoing some serious, and long overdue cosmetic renovation. In 2007, there's something not altogether comforting about reading a web site the color of pee.

Please bear with me while things move, change colors, and break. Hopefully, when it's done, you'll be able to find things more easily. It might even spur me to write some new stuff, who knows.

Did anyone catch Hanson's latest smattering of US concert dates? I am not the Hanson road warrior that I once was, but I can still muster up the energy and the $2 subway fare to see them here in New York. Not to sound too fangirl, but they were pretty amazing. If I can remember what happened that night in any sort of cohesive way, I may write a review. In the meantime, I leave you with this rather blurry photo. Hey, I'm a writer, not a photographer.

Thanks for sticking around!

Across the Years

2007-03-03T10:53:00.000-05:00

Funny how life gets in the way of your Hanson web site. When I was 20, it was the other way around. This is why, my friends, you should never write dolorous farewell notes or burn your internet bridges. Years will pass. The dust will gather. And you will wake up one morning with a song stuck in your head and an inkling to write about that band, the one that will not dislodge itself from your imagination, no matter how your life twists and turns. Ladies and ladies, behold a review of Hanson's new album, The Walk.

Two for the Road

2004-04-18T23:27:00.000-04:00

Two updates: Mid-Atlantic Scrapbook, a combo-platter concert review, filed under Excursions. And Three Men and a Baby, about VH1 All-Access, under the seldom-updated but never forgotten Us and Them. Enjoy!

Better Late Than

2004-02-08T23:12:00.000-05:00

Now that it looks like Hanson is embarking on yet another tour, I figured it was time to clean up some unfinished business with the last one. (Another tour? I mean, what's going on here? Next thing you know, they'll be releasing an album once every two years.) Please welcome Laura's Carnegie Hall review. File that one under Excursions and It's About Damn Time.

New Kids on the Block

2004-01-04T16:29:00.000-05:00

Brace yourself. There's new blood at BAB.org. Never have I been happier to present new hostees. Please pay them all a visit, and give them much love:

Fall On Your Knees: Remember Aileen and Shelby? In its original incarnation, FOYK attracted quite a bit of attention for its take-no-prisoners approach to Hanson commentary. Thankfully, not much has changed.

Back in the Swing: Lily's Hanson-y art is among the best you'll ever see. Narrative and smart, her Hansons are about as vibrant and complex as the real thing. Her commentary, too, has a humanity and a heart that you'd be hard-pressed to find on other sites.

Buffalo Wings

2003-10-20T01:31:00.000-04:00

God. There are so many cheesy, headline-ready catch phrases that relate to Buffalo. The city, that is. Not the animal. Although I guess the animal too.

Of course I used one. OK, I used two for the Buffalo review. Oh yeah. Did I mention that we drove up to Buffalo for that show? Well we did. Go read. Have a day.

Time for My Arrival

2003-08-17T14:00:00.000-04:00

China Club review posted. Just a preliminary draft.

BLING: Funny story about the Baltimore review. When I write, and I don't have a particular piece of information on hand, I use placeholders or TKs to mark the spots I need to edit. When I wrote the Baltimore review, I couldn't remember the name of the Little Richard cover that's been stealing the show at all of these Hanson gigs. Over the weekend, we kept calling it "Ballin'," because that's just funny. Of course, when I wrote the review, guess what I used as my placeholder? And guess how long it was posted on this website before I realized?

No, Ike did not sing "Ballin'" at Baltimore. Exciting as that might have been.

Hanson on the Brain

2003-08-13T00:38:00.000-04:00

I feel like I've been doing drugs for three days, and their names are Ike, Taylor and Zac. Now, just as I'm coming down, there's another concert tomorrow night. No rest for the Hanson weary, I tell you. Oh, did I mention that neither my sister, nor any of my friends are online right now, because they're ALL AT THE BOSTON SHOW? You bitches.

So I spent the evening drinking green tea and updating my web site. I bet you're jealous. You are. You really are. The Baltimore review is updated. That's filed under Excursions. Mostly, I added a lot more about the concert itself.

See you tomorrow night at the China Club. Happy Hanson

Hanson Rules

2003-08-10T23:29:00.000-04:00

Back from Baltimore. Tired as anything. The review is deeply incohesive, but it's done. Perhaps updates will follow, when I remember my own name tomorrow. Do you love Hanson? I love Hanson.

Live from New York

2003-07-25T23:34:00.000-04:00

See, I told you I'd update. Right now, I'm sitting on the floor of my new apartment, because I don't have any furniture yet, and I'm updating on my new laptop, because my tower will simply not fit in here. I wrote this on the train, on the morning I moved. I was nervous. Like so much about Hanson, it was theraputic. It's nothing special—a short little review of Hanson on Leno called Late Nite Hanson. Look for an edited version later in the week. It's filed under The Trinity. I'm not sure why. Amazing how those categories I created to organize things now seem so deeply arbitrary and useless. Maybe there's a BAB re-org somewhere in the future. Have a lovely weekend.

Changeups

2003-07-11T12:31:00.000-04:00

Both Bravenet and Blogger updated their services recently, which wreaked a bit o' havoc at BAB. You'll find the message board and guestbook back online. Please let me know if you seen any other broken stuff.

WHEN I'M MAKIN' MY MOVIE: I visited LA for the first time last week. Did you know that there's an enforced "no cruising zone" on much of the Sunset Strip?

ON A PERSONAL NOTE: I know it's Tour Time, and we're all in a tizzy trying to find tickets and get ourselves to concerts, but I wanted to share some personal news that may mess with any upcoming news and reviews on this site. I just took a very excellent job at a very large, rather famous book publisher in New York City. I'm petrified and excited, and there may not be much time in my life for Bright and Beautiful in the coming months. Something tells me I'll find the time and the gumption to update, especially if there are concerts, but consider this a disclaimer if I disappear for a while. Have a crazy cool weekend.

2003-06-22T17:10:00.000-04:00

HANSON VICARIOUS: What's a girl to do when she can't go see Hanson perform in person? Why, she recruits a friend to go for her, of course. My excellent friend and ex-roommate Megan stopped by the LifeBeat benefit on Thursday and took notes. Literally. Her keen observations have been chronicled in Live from the Swoon Pit, under Excursions.

2003-06-15T23:04:00.000-04:00

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE: Hanson is going on tour. Taylor is celebrating Father's Day with his son. What else could possibly happen in this ever-shifting little universe? Try this one on for size: The PULP Fiction-a-Thon is making a comeback. It bombed last time because, no kidding, it was too popular. We expected ten participants and we got 40. We spent less time working on our stories than we did updating the Fiction-a-Thon web site. Now that all of its logistical kinks are neatly ironed out, we hope you'll join in. The premise is simple: Write every day. Post your story. Stick our banner on your site. If you skip too many days, we boot your link. Got time on your hands and want to help? Let us know! We're looking for extra hands to help read and moderate the entries, so speak up! And if you want to write, sharpen your keyboard and get ready. We'll be re-designing the Fiction-a-Thon website and posting entry information soon. Rock on.