Live Music as Fermented Dairy Product
So, Austin. "Live Music Capital" of the world. I am... unimpressed. Or rather, unhinged by the pressurized hopes I once held out. A Spoon riff echoes in my head, and I swear I hear the howls of And You WIll Know Us By the Trail of Dead duking it out with the ghost of Bill Hicks.
I understand now his obsession with ATF vs. Waco: highway signs for the beleagured town (the Midland, TX of its day) are posted all over this timezone.
The belchstinkfart of hippies vs. punks vs. yuppies vs. college Anglos: every bar had a cover charge, and you will pay dearly to be within The Center of it All, at least the All that is this far away from Williamsburg and Silver Lake. And Wicker Park. And East London. And...
How does a scene get born? Is it caused in mass reaction to the trad pre-ironic coverings of late-90s modern rock jukebox bands? In sneering mid-finger protest to mispelled Texas T-Shirts, bad beers with single star labels, expressive bloggers too suburbo-clueless to mistake a stolen cowboy for real authenticity?
The Armadillo Man thinks not.
Instead, we stop by by the side of the road for the Big Tex 5-for-1 fireworks special. We recognize the rolling hills of King of the Hills' Arlen, and dream dreams of Propane Tanks ablaze with heavenly fury, a venge-fire to purge the ranks of rhythm guitarists and overbiting bass players alike, wherein drummers -- and only drummers! -- are allowed to scale the walls of the capitol bldg and every major office park, and to plunge in an 808 thump-thump-thump base jump pump which shocks the world the way replays of ice dancing mishaps shock the ranks of the bluehairs knitting to the sounds of Bob Costas.
If we are plaintive, it is as if we use that non-quality as a weapon, a Phalanx salvo from the decks of a Nimitz-class carrier, where the mitre boards of the dispossessed slice the clouds with the promises a self-indulgent misspent 20s, where every guitar chord was as though so much gold, and the stolen Gang of Four bass riffs were the working-class underbelly/garments of the
rock
rock
rock
your dirty ball-gag socks off.
Vincent Vaughan, we command thee: swoop down from the Harrier jets of greased money, whip these bands into shape, and allow the skies to once more be patrolled by the inchoate pregnant soundwaves of the Tomorrow we left in between our magazine stacks and the old burnt-out cigarette ash trays.
A pack of guitar strings molder-fuses with an Atari cartridge, and a new sound-daemon slowly slinks its way to BablyonFM, waiting in the ear canals of beastial beercan agony to be postromantically born in 4/4 time... to the 10th power....
I understand now his obsession with ATF vs. Waco: highway signs for the beleagured town (the Midland, TX of its day) are posted all over this timezone.
The belchstinkfart of hippies vs. punks vs. yuppies vs. college Anglos: every bar had a cover charge, and you will pay dearly to be within The Center of it All, at least the All that is this far away from Williamsburg and Silver Lake. And Wicker Park. And East London. And...
How does a scene get born? Is it caused in mass reaction to the trad pre-ironic coverings of late-90s modern rock jukebox bands? In sneering mid-finger protest to mispelled Texas T-Shirts, bad beers with single star labels, expressive bloggers too suburbo-clueless to mistake a stolen cowboy for real authenticity?
The Armadillo Man thinks not.
Instead, we stop by by the side of the road for the Big Tex 5-for-1 fireworks special. We recognize the rolling hills of King of the Hills' Arlen, and dream dreams of Propane Tanks ablaze with heavenly fury, a venge-fire to purge the ranks of rhythm guitarists and overbiting bass players alike, wherein drummers -- and only drummers! -- are allowed to scale the walls of the capitol bldg and every major office park, and to plunge in an 808 thump-thump-thump base jump pump which shocks the world the way replays of ice dancing mishaps shock the ranks of the bluehairs knitting to the sounds of Bob Costas.
If we are plaintive, it is as if we use that non-quality as a weapon, a Phalanx salvo from the decks of a Nimitz-class carrier, where the mitre boards of the dispossessed slice the clouds with the promises a self-indulgent misspent 20s, where every guitar chord was as though so much gold, and the stolen Gang of Four bass riffs were the working-class underbelly/garments of the
rock
rock
rock
your dirty ball-gag socks off.
Vincent Vaughan, we command thee: swoop down from the Harrier jets of greased money, whip these bands into shape, and allow the skies to once more be patrolled by the inchoate pregnant soundwaves of the Tomorrow we left in between our magazine stacks and the old burnt-out cigarette ash trays.
A pack of guitar strings molder-fuses with an Atari cartridge, and a new sound-daemon slowly slinks its way to BablyonFM, waiting in the ear canals of beastial beercan agony to be postromantically born in 4/4 time... to the 10th power....
posted by Paul S. at
9:23 PM
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