So the rain has stopped and the spring seems to be about to get all sprung because these tender loins of ours are wanting desperately to fuck or fight or fail so egregiously in our trying, the wise thing would be to just crawl on back to the flickering cathode comfort of Taxi reruns at the office and just lick our “tails” until the wet truth of fall comes home to mask us all but we’re not because – these days – we’re playing sensible and sensibility suggests that when a bare-knuckled orgy sounds like the right answer for living, it’s probably best to reconsider the question in the company of friends and associates while idly leafing through the enormity of talent present in ways heretofore unknown and…um…maybe we should all just go out and get blitzed, huh? Our time’s too short to start juggling the poles.
“Happiness and Flour” from And That’s Why We Can’t Have Nice Things
Yes, the band is called Flying Vaginas and no, I’m not terribly happy about it but – since the sound is so fuzzy lovey understated where the wild things were, I carved your name in the old oak tree just over mine post pop wunderkindling boy/girl hum – I decided the best thing to do was deduce that the moniker is a double play pisstake both on the cheap rock folly of white dicks swinging their Flying V’s like impotent ape sex mercenaries and the fact that we all have to live in a world where people throw accolades at a band named (goddamnit) Diarrhea Planet. I’m crushing.
“Conch” from Still Bummed
Everyone balks and squawks on emo and they’re right to because there’s a great gaping maw these days swallowing any and every line of reason that might’ve led from Rites of Spring screaming discord among the daisies and the current battle between the beards and the eyeliner painkings for lazy style piece anti-definition. The snake eats its tail. Whatever. Nouns kick the bad vibe feelings trip true to the moonage death dream with just enough kinks and fissures to make some song about a lonesome kid, felted and feeling weird sound like a reason to get up and fight the goddamn day again.
Well, shit. Life or Death PR, huh? This band is working legit. Looks like SPIN’s gone and scooped us to them too and the more I look at their Hotlanta Noisey pleading mugs, the more I just want to rip out this goddamn infected molar and mail it COD to their mothers but I can’t deny there’s some seriously righteous mayhem going on in this here bottle-smashing Pabst (Red, White and) Blue surling jam and so Ima go ahead and keep the bottom bitch in. It’s hard in here for a pimp.