Pissed Jeans

I miss the Laughing Hyenas. I really do. Sure, Easy Action brings Brannon's voice, but the weirdness and power are missing. I pulled out Love's My Only Crime the other night and four bandaids later, I limped off to bed. Some folks have it, and some make you suffer.

Which is why Pissed Jeans may be Brannon's mutant hate child. To paraphrase Amherst Emily, they bring the dark slant. I sing along like it's the Looking Glass's "Brandy," and they ain't gonna make any 70's AM radio comps. But they touch a distant place in the rot corner of my teeming consciousness, and it's a spot that needs the occasional massage, or poker prod. Repetition, repetition, and groove groove groove, if your idea of groove is pounding the living shit outta the neighbor's cat at a steady tire iron beat. Even the slow atmospheric numbers work for me, like "The Jogger,"which, like several of their spurts, takes kidney shots at the bourgeois world I inhabit. I nod. I hate them too, and myself, probably, but I dance, and as disturbing as that image might be, it's the release that keeps me out of the papers. I gardened today with Pissed Jeans blasting on my Ipod.

I wonder if that would make them uncomfortable.