Monday, April 04, 2005

 
Groovy Hate Pigfuck

I'm home while the floor sanders do their work and my cats cower under the bed, convinced that the Rapture is upon us.

Strange combo of mixed feelings while reading the new S/FJ New Yorker piece on Slint. Is the New Yorker readership likely to continue reading past the opening scene? How straight do we take the statement, "Albini was the Jackson Pollock and Clement Greenberg of eighties indie rock: he made important music and told people how to talk about it."?

Is it always necessary when writing for the mainstream press to set up a situation where band b (our heroes) is set off by band a (vomiting cretins)? I can't help being reminded of the old Nick Hornby piece that went from band a (Selfish Cunt, Big Black, Throbbing Gristle) to band b (Marah). Do S/FJ's rock pieces (as opposed to hip-hop) fetishize moments of stillness in the heart of the city? Is that an appropriate approach to a dying genre? Is a New Yorker piece on Suckdog just around the corner (kicking off, I suppose, with Lisa stepping out of a Costes show and walking around Alphabet City in the snow)?

And is being rubbed down with hot stones and ammonia ("But Big Black had also created some smart music, inventing a gloriously discomforting, trebly howl that made you feel as though you were being rubbed down with hot stones and ammonia.") something that's on the menu at the Ernest Hemmingway House of Dominance and Massage?

I'm hiding from such questions under a metaphorical bed called "the 60's." Continuing from the previous post, Time Will Show The Wiser by Merry Go Round.



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