Everett True

DIY criticism vs. music | The next (10) time I listened to ——————–

DIY criticism vs. music | The next (10) time I listened to  ——————–
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The next time I hear the new Tunabunny album I’m incensed, beaten down.

The world folds and unfolds uselessly before my blurred eyes. Nothing sounds right. It sounds like The Cure. Whiny spotty immature English white boy vocals. Production values that clearly never got over 1982 starting. Then I realise I am actually listening to The Cure.

Lester only knows I miss my Brighton sweethearts Electrelane.

I said I like your underwear.

No matter how hard I try I still can’t hit the right button. Now I’m listening to Galaxie 500, swept under by the glory and the power. Now I’m listening to The Hold Steady, raucous in my underwear. Now I’m listening to The Pretenders, left wondering if I can ever attain that much cultural capital without drugs. Now I’m caught lost, unawares, stunned by the (lack of) headlights.

And I could bleed in sympathy with you.

My stomach churns. Is it that time already? The next time I hear Kingdom Technology, I …

I …

I …

(The boy stutters, caught unprepared. The girl has swivelled right around in her seat and is now staring directly at his crotch. Still the boy manages to convince himself that she’s not looking at him, even though there’s no one else around.)

The next time I encounter Kingdom Technology I am glorious green, stewed up and wistful for anticipation. Wanting noise, wanting release. Wondering if this is all one elaborate joke and wondering why if that’s so how come he ain’t laughing? Is coffee so important? Wanting coffee. Wanting the voices and dissonant guitars to swirl around his head in abandon. Wanting that percussion to clatter and plod and being a fraction disappointed when it does. Seeking those fascist groove queens. Sun. Solace. Sun. Solace. Sun. Solar power. Sun, Shaun.  Sun, shorn. Sun. Sun. Sun. Seeking those belligerent bellicose beats. Seeking that pulsating pulse. Seeking that…

I …

Where do you go to my lovely when you’re asleep in your bed? More prosaically: do you dream in colour or in black and white? And HOW THE FUCK WOULD YOU KNOW?

I like the track where the precision sounds like Space Invaders but that’s been true for 30 years now.

Softly now.

You notice how brick walls change their colour throughout the day? You notice how most lyrics are there to obscure emotion? You notice how no one credits the powerless?

(and fade to halt.)

Can’t stop it.

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