Tell Us What You Really Think...

Picked to Click Voters spew forth their most vehement opinions about the local music scene

Dan Rein: Even more immersed and well-traveled in the sounds of the sand...

Brown Rainbow: An absurd, exciting mess.

--Clint Simonson


I concur with the Minnesota Music Academy. The Owls' "Air" is the best. Give a hoot, don't pollute. The Tin Star Sisters get the "Most Charming" award, and "Best Use of an Accordion." I also agree with the Academy regarding Alicia Wiley: "Most Likely To Succeed." It seems that wherever you are, there's a band named JAR. Why is that? Dear JAR Minneapolis, please change your name. Then maybe I can vote for you again next year. Just keep working on that rustic acoustica and keep your mouth shut. Robert Everest is not new, but his artful, imaginative takes on Bolero, Flamenco, and MPB are. They go good with a corn pancake, too.

--Patrick Whalen



I was looking at last year's "Picked to Click" list and trying to find out if any of the bands were still active. A few are doing well, but the majority of them seemed to have drifted off the radar. Then I found myself trying to figure out what "Picked to Click" really meant and was hoping not to drift into some psychological moral dilemma over the chance that if I picked a band, they might not even be around next year. Is it the pressure of being picked to click--the idea that after the poll comes out, it will be hard to keep up that standard of rocking? Is it that fame throws a wrench into the psyches of most bands and their egos go out of control? It would be easy for someone like Haley Bonar to keep rolling, since she is just one person. A whole band is another story. The infrastructure of a band is the most fragile thing in the world. So if you do get "Picked" and I voted for you and everything is downhill afterward, remember it was the City Pages that came up with this idea. If you get some super record deal or sell a bunch of CDs and land some big shows, then give me a call and thank me. A note on the music I picked: While Coach Said Not To, Mel Gibson and the Pants, and Look Down were intriguing bands to me because of their unique sound, I still always seem to revert to cool guitar band rock like the Swiss Army and Zebulon Pike. I like the guitars and I like it a little bit heavy. Don't know why, I just do.

--Rich Horton


I never knew what to say in yearbooks: Have a great summer! Let's hang out! I never liked the "Most likely to..." section, or the lame posed photos. So let's cut the crap. Everyone can tell if a band loves what they're doing. Everyone knows who just cares about being popular, who tries too hard, who steps on others to get to the top, and who creates amazing music. Everyone knows the names of the seniors when they walk through the halls, and people talk about them when they aren't even around. These are the freshmen. Some are more mature, experienced, and some are just getting started. But some are starting to really stand out. Soon enough, the cream will rise to the top and our elephantine popularity contest will have proven itself once again as both as defining and as completely irrelevant as freshman yearbook pictures. But in any case, go check out some new bands and judge them for yourself. You might even like them...

--Oren Goldberg



Hey fuckers: The shit sounds coming from this room are fucking pissing off real musicians AND you are [sic] wasteing money paying for a jam space when you fucking suck ass at music!

p.s. here's a present that resembles your musical style....SHIT! Ha Ha FUCK YOU

(Contents of a note left on the door to a rented rehearsal room shared by Ova!, Happy Mothers Day I Can't Read, Diamonds, and my band, Noise Quean Ant--along with plenty of actual human feces covering the door, knob, and floor.)

--Scott Brown


I'm a bit like the Boo Radley of northeast Minneapolis. There is a round oily smear on the front window of my house where my forehead rests each early morning. My noggin rests firmly on the glass as my eyes scan patiently up and down the cracked and tarred section of 27th Avenue that lies quietly outside. I deftly roll my body behind the blinds when I spot one of my neighbors trotting off to the bus stop, but I stay put when the squirrels come. I don't mind them so much. Most mornings of the past year, my only other companion has been the quirky, subdued electronica of Halloween, Alaska. This album may be more than a year old, but it just doesn't seem to wear. It rolls around my head each morning like warm honey, spilling out to glue wayward leaves to my front steps. It thickens the puddles along the curb. It's just as patient and full of retreat as I've deemed myself to be.

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