The return of Everett True | 70. Fear Kittens
Still occasionally it’s ace being me. When folk don’t forget me. When folk link me.
A trusted source suggests I may love Seattle’s Fear Kittens. They’re right. I do.
I mean, how couldn’t I? They remind me of (deep breath)… The Groceries, Ed’s Redeeming Qualities, Lesbo Pig, Maria And The Gay (the band I once threatened to shut this website down for), Marine Girls, The Diskettes, Girlpool, Stanley Brinks, Clive Pig, Trixie’s Big Red Motorbike, The Crabs, Frankie Cosmos (the artist who caused me to stop writing about music for three months because I couldn’t find the words), The Cannanes, Clag, The Penguins, The See Gulls, Tangerine, Kimya Dawson, Manors… oh and so many more secret crushes and full-blown love affairs and hate fucks besides. This is some heartland Everett True music: witchy, breathy, silence as a rhythm too, the odd tumble of melody and anguished vocal and chair being scraped across the floor. It’s the accent. It’s the gender. It’s the non-reliance upon muscly wife-beater rock. It’s the brevity. It’s the beauty. It’s the secret car pooling. It’s the sound of the bass and clattering, human drums. It’s the wind on my face as I cross over the freeway at Pike. It’s loneliness and distance and the memory of a… It’s snow angels and snowball fights and a truck stuck at the side of the road in Detroit snow. It’s bake sales and fire hydrants. (This is all terrible English. No apologies.)
Cute, but tough.
Let’s see if I can give you a sense of the music without actually describing it.
Follow the links. There’s so much great music there. And Fear Kittens are just as wonderful, just as magical. That whooshing sound you can hear?
That’s me swooning as I fall headfirst in love again.
…a fucking lollipop on a fucking 3-inch stick for this music. You must know this about me by now. A fucking sink plunger covered with gunk and gristle. An eight-miles high warning sign plastered in bird shit and failed sun-journeys.