How do we live with the unforgiving ghosts of yesterday? The past is an accusation you cannot address. And tomorrow is a yawning pit with few alternatives. Memory is a cage, it would seem.
I feel like there should be a word for the moment of collision. I wonder about the impact velocity of time. Do we ease into passing seconds as they unfold before us? Or are they like tiny meteorites, each hurling into our amorphous consciousnesses moment by moment.
Time is damage.
2019 is four minutes away as I type this. And there seems to be no escaping it. I wasn’t finished with this year yet, you motherfucker. I need a do-over.
. . .
Dolores O’Riordin died drunk in a bathtub this year and there is no justice in the world.
. . .
REM plays on the speakers. 2018 has expired. It’s the end of the world as we know it. How many of you reading this can name more than one member of that group? How many of you were born after their first record? How many of you even know what I’m talking about?
There are bands here. I should speak on their merits. But I’m feelin’ bad, man. I’m feelin bad and I barely had the energy to walk outside tonight. I’m inestimably sad. I’m afraid of where we’re going. I’m sick from my inability to make the world a better place. My levers are all too short.
And I’m fucking tired.
. . .
Look.. The bands were fantastic. Deathhouse Blues always thrills me. Arms Bizarre is playing the kind of weird alt-rock that no one else touches and they’re a joy to behold. The Great Noise is a fun, young band that has been steadily shedding their initial fascination with the Foo Fighters and moving their sound into darker, more substantive territory. The Unabombers are a fucking national treasure. It’s not them. It’s me. I’m broken. I’m incapable of pretending like doom isn’t looming over us with each passing moment. And I’m too far gone tonight for the music to save me.
I fear we’re well and truly fucked. And the illusory promise of a different set of numbers on the calendar just isn’t doing it for me this go-round.
. . .
Someone asked me the other night, “Why do you have to drag politics into it?” As if there’s any way to separate the shitstorm we’re watching unfold from our day-to-day. As though capitalism isn’t the defacto enemy of the human condition art tries to reflect. As though each and every one of these musicians aren’t going to have to turn around and walk into a soul-crushing job that is the nemesis of every song they have in them. We are each and every one of us connected, and there’s a whole swath of people out there on a side that looks upon suffering and death and says, “I don’t care.” Something has to be done about that. How folks can listen to a piece of music that makes them cry and then turn around in the same breath and get irritated about helping someone else pay to go see a doctor is mystifying to me.
Politics are the alternative to war. And when you ask me why I had to drag them into this, you’re essentially telling me that you’ve given up on us not killing each other. I’m not there yet. So I’ll continue bring it. I will talk about the world as it relates to this art.
Don’t like it? Go start your own fucking website and come out and write about these bands. Please. For the love of all that’s holy. Someone else needs to.
I won’t be around forever, ya know?
— end transmission —
Norfolk. Alt Rock.
The Great Noise