I understand the circle-jerking in honor of the 20th anniversary of the release of Nevermind even if I think Nirvana the most over-hyped band since the last until the next (though credit Cobain for ensuring it's legacy by killing himself - as with Joplin, Hendrix, motherfucking Morrison, ask yourself: if they hadn't died the young genius' romantic death, had they sobered and lived and produced inevitably lesser and self-derivative music, then, at fifty, sixty, to keep the checks coming, played Wolftrap for old farts, whither their sainthood? It's an old question, asked without malice.).
I don't hate Nirvana (I don't lurch for the radio to change stations when Nirvana comes on like I do for The Motherfucking Doors) any more or less than I hate, say, Ernest Hemingway or Raymond Carver, though holyfuck, I hate the motherfucking swarms of shitty imitators they all spawned, which is to say while I may not like Nirvana I need be even smaller than I already am not to acknowledge their influence.
I do, however, like Bryan Ferry, who was born sixty-six years ago today, and I love Roxy Music (all line-ups), which is in the permanent inner-rotation for the remaining three spots of five in my sillyass desert island game.
- So to be clear, I'm not against circle-jerking; the argument, as always, is who is worthy of the circle-jerk by compulsive circle-jerkers, and the argument, as always, is whether circle-jerking is more nature or nurture.
- Toward a provisional definition of disequalibrium.
- Nelson, my dog.
- America's first Jewish president.
- Got your goat.
- Another blogfriend struggles with the -.06% less-shitty problem.
- Yes, I understand why motherfucking crackers, but motherfucking crackers.
- Why the Antichrist matters in politics.
- On the less-shitty meme. (h/t)
- Motherfucking crackers don't do pastels!
- Motherfucking crackers.
- Police state.
- Even though I'm certain I'd be just as pissed-off at a Hillarypotus as I am at Obamapotus, I'm preparing to be called a racist for hating Obamapotus.
- Fuck Obamapotus.
- American values.
- Go sign Thunder's petition.
- Better exam questions, please.
- Fundamentalists are not equivalent to Christianity.
- Holyfuck, just fuck KEXP, the circle-jerkiest of them all.
- A meditative ABC on rock & roll and poetic composition.
- Darkblack's Sunday Overnight.
- Richard Thompson.
- Love is the drug.
- Avalon. Dozens of the five best nights of my life Avalon was played.
- All I want is you. Jeebus, 70s' video production values.
- To turn you on.
- I'd solicit - OK, I'm soliciting - Roxy and/or Ferry solo suggestions in comments and promise to post them if that offer wasn't six months and four or five alienated readers ago.
- Mother of pearl.
A few hours after Des Moines the toilet overflowed. This wasn't the adventure it sounds. I sat with a man whose tattoos weighed more than I did. He played Hendrix on mouth guitar. His Electric Ladyland lips weren't fast enough and if pitch and melody are the rudiments of music, this was just memory, a body nostalgic for the touch of adored sound. Hope's a smaller thing on a bus. You hope a forgotten smoke consorts with lint in the pocket of last resort to be upwind of the human condition, that the baby sleeps and when this never happens, that she cries with the lullaby meter of the sea. We were swallowed by rhythm. The ultra blond who removed her wig and applied fresh loops of duct tape to her skull, her companion who held a mirror and popped his dentures in and out of place, the boy who cut stuffing from the seat where his mother should have been— there was a little more sleep in our thoughts, it was easier to yield. To what, exactly— the suspicion that what we watch watches back, cornfields that stare at our hands, downtowns that hold us in their windows through the night? Or faith, strange to feel in that zoo of manners. I had drool on my shirt and breath of the undead, a guy dropped empty Buds on the floor like gravity was born to provide this service, we were white and black trash who'd come in an outhouse on wheels and still some had grown— in touching the spirited shirts on clotheslines, after watching a sky of starlings flow like cursive over wheat—back into creatures capable of a wish. As we entered Arizona I thought I smelled the ocean, liked the lie of this and closed my eyes as shadows puppeted against my lids. We brought our failures with us, their taste, their smell. But the kid who threw up in the back pushed to the window anyway, opened it and let the wind clean his face, screamed something I couldn't make out but agreed with in shape, a sound I recognized as everything I'd come so far to give away.