Oh, man. I feel like it’s been a minute, huh? Sorry. Sorry. We’ve grown sleepy and fat and unkempt with the good Kap’n going capital and dear Lemon reigning Belfast and then there were the animal rightings and the marks down low and the the snow blindness and the thing about the gun trick at Vertigo and, recently, Charles is trying to stave off red meat and El Jefe is in the elucidated mire of a spirit frenzy and there’s more, so much more that doesn’t bear the least bit of repeating but has seriously impacted our collective/respective ability to give two whirling dervishes for unfamiliar company but we’re gonna change that, peoples and we are gonna start here today and we don’t dare promise anything like regularity because we’ve just grown tired of lying but we will make it our aim, again, to seek out, let found and recount the myriad of unheralded (if not unheard) sounds that make the matrix ring her tinker bells and boys like us yell “REBEL!” Rockit.
“Pariahs” from FRC Triple Six Series
I have a lot of friends who live in the Pacific Northwest now. Some of them raise chickens, others make chocolates, still others have children and Fords and a sort of bespoke nouveau chic browbeat way of living that is alternately charming and insufferable and then there are also some grunts from the old guard that drank cheap beer because it was cheap and effective and went to gigs to get shit-canned and maybe start a fight if not a riot just to make the endless grey living bearable enough to not kick the barrel out under the noose and still do…I guess? I don’t know. We don’t talk much and when we do there’s usually cocaine and something or other about GG Allin because that dude always bears repeating. The cocaine not so much.
“Like Trash” from Descension
Punk is an anger and an energy and everything that Lydon said (and less and more, of course) but it’s also a nervous fucking wreck as well it should be because no one with any real stake in their own continuation on this plane of existence would invest themselves in such a perpetually implosive scourge on culture and couture and commodity brokers yet they do and I have and am and will again and so it’s nice to rumble into something that stirs the belly bees like Nervosas with their skinflinting courage and boy/girl shout, wail and treble. It’s a little how I like to imagine the Roxy humming, juked neon, in the early, early morning somewhere between Fear went global and X smart-alecked Billy Zoom to the Jesus except not at all but it’s Ohio and you ought to know that I love that town so.
“Can’t Hold It Close” from Fun in the Sun with…
So I had this friend or still have, I guess who lived out in the Hamptons which, on paper, is pretty fucking luxe except there’s a whole lot of shithole to be found in that botox hamlet. Anyway, this one summer, we were really hot for The Dead Kennedys and so we rode around blasting “Kill the Poor” over and over from a black Honda Prelude with a huge gash down the passenger side over which we’d had a girl write “Flawless” after a particularly curious Bacardi binge. It was awesome. We got a lot of thumbs up from fat men in chinos. Some dogs barked at us. A cop or two tailed us but let us be young, white and dumb. This went on for an hour or two before we finally crashed a beach party and drank vodka in a trailer half-naked and high as fuck or went back to his room to drink Sparks, play video games and shoot BB Guns. Either way, it was perfectamente.