March 11, 2005


These are the things I have to tell you, well, more suggest than anything:

If you are feeling generous of spirit and wallet - for a mere $379.00 you can hook me up with a subscription to Journal of Pragmatics because the complimentary articles are not enough. I think I would only need a year subscription though, because the ivory-tower speak slows me, and a year subscription would def keep me busy until 2009.

Second-wise, I am in NYC tomorrow, and J-Shep and I are going to be hitting the Juiceboxx show , and you should come out and support the precocious teen-rap stee, Milwaukee's new wonder. Not to be real publicista about it, esp. considering I have only seen Juiceboxx DJ and not rap, but so far everything the kid dones is 1000-proof blowing it out the framework. Plus, you can say hi and powerchill with me and J-Shep. I just got a haircut today, and it's way less skaterat/"greasy Conor" than intended, andmuch more on this Ron Wood 1980 level that's totes not punk and asexual enough for me. So just look for a bad haircut, and I will be under it.

Lastly, my long standing grudge against Dinosaur Jr's consumate boy-dom via fetishized virtuosity and lyrical laissez-faire as signifier of everything I came to become alienated by in white male indie rock (we're talking the bedrock seeding implimentation that was tandem with the "revolution girl style now" / Oly Wa primalist "Love Rock" embrace c. 92-94) -- well it's crumbling under the weight of retrospection. Without recent listening to You're Living All Over Me, Bug or even Green Mind , it's hard to believe what Thurston said about J Mascis (being capable of) inspiring re: a Teenage Riot, but in the light of the first fuzzed out wah-wah womb of "Little Fury Things" -- it's enough to give you blisters it's so scorching. All the sudden, Magnet Magazines legion of 89-94 nostalicon critics starts making all the sense in the world, and visions of a back-lit J, hair waving like some low-mast flag, arcs of scree'd solo reposessing yr pulse while he lays into "Budge", jamming against that relentless bastardized hxc 1-2 beat, all nasally white soul building into an admittedly sisiphysian vocal harmony, well, it feels like love. Mascis' posession of anti-star power was perfectly converse to his posession of rhapsodizing talent.

Posted by Jessica at March 11, 2005 04:50 PM | TrackBack