Ed. Note: There are times, precious times in this whirlwind gig we still got going here at Pinpoint when the privileges outshadow the pratfalls by a mile and you find yourself rubbing elbows with the cream of the pop in a shoebox of well-manicured taste, trends and ticky-tacks worth more than all eight of your shoes waiting breathlessly (and by formal invitation) to catch a glimpse of the finest fucking thing in yellow leather and sometimes, as in this time, that big, bad bawler is Courtney Barnett and goddamn are you grateful because that little Australian sunset is fast becoming the summation of all the good years gone bad guitar heroes and agitpop sirens spitting angst like intimacies (or is the other way around) and one day, not so very soon from now, you’ll be able to look back and tell your oogling accomplices over whiskeys at the sparrow that was once a hole that you were THERE! man and it was fucking radical. Or, you would if you were El Jefe and you could still call L.A. your oyster which, sadly, most of us aren’t. Le sigh, right? Oh well. At least we have his evidence and the near prospect of Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit which is gonna blow your molars right out your back. Until then please dig, if you will, his pictures.
Fraser A. Gorman