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Number II: Thou Shall Not Fart

Again, this should go without saying, but it bears repeating, primarily due to the fact that I have attended too many shows in venues that smelled like the Augean Stables. Flatus, while lacking the tangible quality of, say, vomit, is in many ways a more insidious menace, simply because it's difficult to accurately assign blame. It's like one of those asinine murder at the dinner party games where everyone is a suspect.

I have too many firsthand experiences with fartistes to chronicle here. However, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the Flatulent Phantom of the Murat. Last year, I traveled to Indianapolis to see the legendary Morrissey at the Murat. Unfortunately, the show was marred by a noxious gas attack better suited for the trenches of WWI France. I'm positive it was the sweet and tender hooligan seated directly in front of me in the pleated Dockers shorts, but like my sainted grandmother always says, "necessitas probandi incumbit ei qui agit." Regardless, I still can't listen to Life Is A Pigsty without my gag reflex taking over. Now, get this. Two months later, MOKB's own Dee made a pilgrimage to the Murat to see Wilco. Afterward, all she could talk about wasn't the setlist or how cute Jeff Tweedy was, but rather the tear-inducing flatus she was subjected to from the show's opening stanzas. Is it something in Indy's water supply? Tainted Bud Lite at the Murat? The same individual or a second farter? I know the Murat has a balcony, but a grassy knoll?

Sadly, concerts are a perfect storm scenario for flatulence. Start with fire code-violating crowds of strangers (many of whom have recently indulged in fried and fatty foods) in an enclosed, frequently warm, space. Add liberal amounts of cheap beer. Throw in a lot of standing, a handful of first dates and top the whole mess off with some inspired shimmying. The result? Practically every colon in the place is idling like a Harley-Davidson Panhead before the headliner even takes the stage. So what's a guy (or girl) to do?

Hold it in.

That's right, hold it in. It's not going to kill you. Your sphincter muscles will remain toned (you'll thank me in the September of your years) and it might actually add definition to your abs. If you absolutely cannot hold it in, wander outside for a moment "to smoke," or (here's an idea) hit the head. At the very least, get out of my section, because Charles's Law is in full effect. I may have spent my entire high school chemistry career carving names of punk bands in lab tables and searching for a Spanish Fly formula, but even I know that, way back in the late 1700s, Jacques Charles figured out that a volume of a gas is directly proportional to its temperature. Lesson here? Save the farting for the ski slopes.

Bottom line here is that no one buys a concert ticket to smell ass, at least not since G.G. Allin passed (on). Pucker up.

Thou Shall Not Take Crappy Pictures With Your Phone

When Smashing Pumpkins played St. Paul last year, Billy Corgan's appearance onstage was greeted equally by cheers and cameraphones stretched skyward. It was comical, and lucky me had the option of watching the Pumpkins through approximately 500 1"x1" low-resolution screens. Most people around me spent the majority of the show working through this process:

Snap picture with phone

Evaluate picture

Decide it's shite

Delete picture

Return to step 1

Why? I just did a Google image search for Billy Corgan and it returned 75,500 images. I then spelled his name incorrectly (Billy Corrigan) and I got another 89,500. Do you really need to take 50 more with your phone? Chances are you'll never look at those pictures again. In fact, it's likely that 99% of those pictures were deleted 3 nights later to take pictures of Arcade Fire, which themselves were deleted to document a potato chip that looked like Sorrell Booke.

I know. You'll show your pictures to friends the next day. Bad idea. Never show friends pictures of your kids, your pets, your rashes or concerts you attend. They'll just never be able to match your enthusiasm, you'll get a little pissed and it'll just be uncomfortable for everyone. Even worse, your friend may mistake your prized candid pic of Justin Vernon for an action shot of a goat kicking its way out of a monkey's stomach. How are you going to feel then?

Now, I'm not saying that cameraphones are inherently evil or useless. If you're at a county fair and catch a barbershop quartet of Elvis, D.B. Cooper, Tupac and Bigfoot performing Daisy Bell, by all means, snap away. And there are worse things for your career than snapping a pic of your boss, sans trousers, at his bachelor party. Otherwise, here's a crazy idea. Just enjoy the damn show. Listen. Watch. Form memories; they'll last way longer than your phone and will ultimately serve you much better than another 50 blurry, overexposed and heavily pixelated pictures of James Murphy partially obscured by my fat head. But if you still feel you need pictures, guys like MOKB's own Dave Evans are doing their thing to make sure there are plenty of great pictures online by the time you get home.

Thou Shall Not Request Songs

Sorry folks, the music biz has changed. Gone are the days of Springsteen's bladder-bursting 4-hour shows and The Replacements swapping instruments to bumble through Bad Company covers. Touring is expensive and promoters are cramming more bands on bills in an attempt to sell tickets, which means tighter schedules and shorter sets. 99.9% of bands are working off setlists because time is money. Lighting and effects. Alternate tunings. Sequencers and samples. Even stage banter is meticulously planned out ahead of time to maximize presentation of the product. And speaking of product, don't think the record companies down have an interest in what songs their bands perform live. Bottom line? You can yell your head off, but if it's not already on the setlist, forget it. Which reminds me. If an artist asks an audience what they want to hear, they're just waiting to hear the title of the next tune on their list. You know that, don't you?

What's wrong with letting musicians decide which songs to play? It's their material, let them present it as they wish. Do you toss out requests at the symphony? At a play? At church? What would you rather hear? An inspired version of a song you've never been terribly fond of, or a half-assed version of a favorite? And one more thing, when a musician changes bands, don't expect them to revisit the good ol' days. If you're going to a Wilco show and planning on screaming for Graveyard Shift and Punch Drunk until you're lightheaded, do us all a favor; just stay home and listen to the Uncle Tupelo records.

Now, I'm not suggesting that as an audience member, you can never make requests. There are probably musicians in your own city who know thousands of songs and regularly play to a group of twenty derelicts who are more interested in pulltabs and finding a good divorce lawyer than what the guy with the guitar is doing. Dale Watson knows more songs than should be humanly possible, including everything Merle Haggard ever wrote or recorded. Grab a stack of dollar bills, find a hungry busker and make him or her play all of your favorites. If you ever make it up to the Twin Cities, I would have recommended Nye's Polonaise Room, but it's lost much of its cache since the clowns from Esquire discovered it. Pepper your local college radio station with requests, they'll be thrilled that someone is listening. Point is, there are plenty of people willing to be your personal jukebox. You can just sit at the bar, put bread in their jar, and if you absolutely must, say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"

Note to the guy still yelling for Free Bird at every concert: Stop.