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« on: October 05, 2006, 11:36:08 PM »
Questions, comments and or criticisms? Please report to the office, we've found your lunch and it's been touched by the special ed kids. It's a form of communication.
When I was a wee lad of 11 or 12 years old, I was living in the town of Chilton, WI practicing my future as a cliched' rural ventriloquist (did I spell that right?). Well, most of the magazines at the Kwik Trip were of the metal sort -- yer Rip and yer Hit Parader. There was only one flavor of Jolt back then -- it was called Jolt Cola! A curious lad, I found a column towards the back of an daft sorta magazine called Spin which was written by Byron Coley and was called "Underground." In this odd sanctuary, I discovered evidence of the Swell Maps, Pagans, Half Japanese, the Electric Eels, Nurse With Wound, etc. His descriptions gave me a mental boner. My mind raced as the prospect of someday finding these items in the bigger cities to the north (Appleton, Green Bay, Manitowoc) or the south (Milwaukee, Madison...). And, eventually, I did. It wasn't easy, but I did it.
My point is, consider yourselves lucky, you eternal fucksnobs. This internet fad has given you really easy access to information about "underground" music. It's all so easy, isn't it? Therefore, I take good advice from members of the elite "pre-internet" and even the "pre-Nirvana-and-Green-Day-alternative-explosion" days. These old fucks, like Dickknee and Sorryano actually are worth listening to sometimes, because they mighta had to actually seek out something and not just have it land in their lap available for discussion on some vaguely music-related internet forum populated by desperate post-teenage vampires who think they invented the fucking wheel by owning a 7-inch by some fucking band who's supposed to be this or that in light of the current state of rock'n'roll vs. hoochie-coo.
As I sit here on my podium, in a town of 3,000 people with no record stores or shows to go to within 25 miles, I feel refreshed like that naive lad I once was and I'm ready to forcibly shut your traps with a flick of my bait-casting finger. And some weird things happened at band practice today, our first in a few months. Weird good things.
My further point is, yes, some nerdy old grandpa like Byron Coley still holds more relevance to me than some little boys talking about semen-smeared record sleeves and limited edition pressings of some pointless waffle. Waffles. Belgian waffles. With strawberries and freshly spurted maple syrup.
I haven't heard the Hipshakes, yet, but if Assknee likes them, they might be good. Or not. Either way, I'm not going to get my panties in a roll over it.
By the way, anyone can feel free to send me recordings of whatever swell bands that are around these days that I should be checking out. All I've been doing is listening to Lee Hazlewood. It's weird that Lastname is on a Hazlewood fix as well, which means he is becoming a grumpy old man and will soon have a beer gut as big as mine. Metabolisms do slow down after a certain age.
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