Buried and happy, these songs were, you can believe that the oxygen up here long since gone real thin for rock & roll so pure from the seed. No, you're right: Jon, Judah and Russell never did like going backwards, but you've forced them to take it to the previous level. Because all this time you thought you were brown but you 're really green.
Things get paved over fast in this steroidal Olympiad of cultural amnesia that you call freedom, so here's a recap cut for your attention span: Way the fuck back in the early 1990s. So long ago, man people blogging on rocks with sticks, that sort of thing, makes you nostalgic. There were records then, bent steel, from the hands of men and women men in this case. (Though it's true to say that women, idea and form, played a significant role.) The evidence is laid out in front of you look. This was when the Groovy Hate Fuck went groovier, fuckier and more unh! emotionally complex.
Check out "Son of Sam" no, WAIT! "Train #3"! Okay, "Latch On" you just can't plan that. These guys howled because they had to, not cause the book said, "Howl here." Now, no one's putting you on the spot, but when was the last time you put down the book (burn it) and went commando? No reason to lie, just consider it is all I'm saying. So while you think you know what you think, allow for the possibility that there may be a little more back there, back where they stash all the truth that's huh, it's all rather inconvenient nowadays, eh? Well, didactic fantastic some records stand to be corrected and these ones came correct. Check out the linear progression from "Shirt Jac" to "Dig My Shit" and get to know a rock & roll band! What? No, of course I don't mean that kind of linear. This kind. One pass through these sides and you will know it: Jon, Judah and Russell didn't like you, but man did they love you. Even you, Caroline. Supply and demand get with it. Meanwhile, back here in now, the monkeys are beating themselves into foamy impotence over well it's hard to tell, you know. All sounds like breeze through trees, only less pretty.
Know this though: Amateur Hour is here to stay (what's up Andrew Keen). It extends as far as the eye doth weep, an emoticonned network of rock kleptomaniacs and witless brain-drainiacs. People wearing Clash badges telling us this war started in Detroit?!? Please. Don't get me wrong, I mean no insult to anyone at all for anything ever, but please. This ain't a movie, dawg. These guys really did it. Brought the train back, right on time. Blues Explosion. —Mike Wolf, Nearby to There, NYC, 2007