I arrived at work this morning on edge and in desperate need of release. I will not go into all the details as to why, but let's just say I required a tempering soundtrack to disquieting thoughts of murder. I put on The Reatards Grown Up, Fucked Up, and Jay's voice instantly blew out the internal pollution and churning, unspeakable emotions that threaten domestic tranquility. If there is a better therapeutic record than this one, it might only be what I put on next, Black Flag's The First Four Years, which not only played relief pitcher to the strong seven innings of hate Jay Reatard delivered, but struck out the side, held the shutout and bought beer for the post-game party. Weeks and even months go by and records go on and come off, and, well, nothing. White noise. Then an hour with the right records at the right time and all of a sudden you remember why you keep digging. God bless the hatefuckers who lay it down and keep us out of prison.
5 comments:
keep the hate rolling. dons v. zags 8pm tonight. memorial is sold it out, and it's televised. party at steve's house!!! party at the garden!!!
i ate doritos for lunch and think i'm gonna retch. you needed to know this
Dorritos suck. Funyons. son. Always Funyons.
I hear you Sonny with how a record can change your life. And I will agree this usually comes as a form of escape from deeply dark and angry. This is why I love music far more than movies, books or anything. Its visceral like nothing else except strippers and coke. And well that gets expensive.
Go Dons.
Sorry to hear about that. Sucks.
hey tuna, what are you doing up at that ungodly hour? I mean, I was up this morning at 4 PST, but we have a newborn at home. Remember, these are the years when beauty sleep can make all the difference in the lines of a middle-aged man. At a certain point, only the knife can retrieve the illusion of youth and beauty. My advice is to avoid pictures from five years ago or more. It's just too much mortality perspective.
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