At the start of this year, I started a Tumblr blog and began posting recollections there – half-remembered, faceless – of events that had happened to me in the past. My friend Vincent Vanoli drew some wonderful illustrations to accompany the vignettes – being French, occasionally a word would become lost in the translation but that […]
We sang drunkenly and lustily and annoyingly along with every song we knew
I thought it’d be a good behind-the-scenes look at what goes on at Collapse Board
I used to despise the hippies, pretending to be so out there:
Elizabeth Montgomery was just about the sexiest woman of my 20s
A couple of drunks near the back get up and mock-slow dance to your impassioned song of unrequited love. They give up after the third instrumental break.
The first two Joe Jackson albums were unstoppable: pure Mod sharpness and wide boy style. And for that one night, so were we.
Courtney retreated to the back of the stage, and crouched there calling my real name out, over and over again. “Jerry. Jerry. Jerry.” I didn’t know what had transpired.
This music seemed so unreal, so glitzy and mainstream and safe when compared to the music we chose to listen to
Reassurance only comes about from belonging to the right cliques. I don’t mean that to sound too negative.