September 09, 2009


This is what happens when your dad gets you dressed, Clementine--pockets and ruffles down yr back and suddenly then yr stuck like a baby snausage.

Trying to write about Buckner. STUCK. It's kind of like trying to write about Lungfish, about PJ. Well, some people can write about Lungfish, but it's hard, there is so much particular to the lyrics and grain of Higgs, that raspy, sonorous glimpse-of-death voice that makes explaining worthless. Buckner too, there is something that escapes as soon as you try and touch it. He stops short of where you want, where his voice needs to go--or rather YOU need it to, what he needs to repeat to soothe, to tell the entire story. Big Star and pre-or even-intoDarkness Springsteen both have the same thing. A certain unwillingness to give into the hook or bloom their brilliance, that brilliance that is there, and just holds up with this little shim of coldness. You know? "Candy's Room" barely wants to give up what it's got, all that gallop into...twinkling and a key change denoting TRIUMPH?! It could give a fuck about yr needs. The Live 75-85 version is I think, one of the most satisfying things in his catalog, the one that matters.
PJ... well, no one can write about PJ and capture anything, you just get tangled. We imprint so much on what the fuckever she is doing, we imprint feminism and come hither and try and decipher why is she in the water (always!) on the cover, why is she wet and naked, and it all comes out like some rookie P4k 9.7 kinda lather, tangled in the underpants of our minds. The great myth of rock criticism is that you can write about Peej without sounding like a class A overintellectualizing moron. Why do you think her 33.3 book is workshopped speculative fiction and not a critical undeviling of the mercies of Rid Of Me? IT CAN'T BE DONE! I AM TELLING YOU!

Posted by jessica hopper at September 9, 2009 05:01 PM | TrackBack