Indie pop motherfuckers who will fuck your shit up.
Second-hand mohair turtlenecks. Evocative lyrics about lawn furniture. Ten dollar show tickets. Glockenspiel solos. This is what most people think indie pop is all about. These people are hopelessly, hopelessly naïve. To make a home for yourself in the world of indie pop, you’ve got to be more bloodthirsty and skilled than all the heroes of the Trojan War combined. Well, except Orlando Bloom because he was a kind of a pussy and ended up getting Eric Bana killed in the end and that’s not cool since he was pretty much the hottest guy in the whole movie. Anyway, keep your eyes peeled for these bleeding heart badasses before you wind up a veiled reference to violence in some slow but still remotely danceable ballad.
Jeff Mangum
Bitch, I shouldn’t have to tell you. He’s the man, the myth, the legend, wrapped up in a Fair Isle sweater and sent direct to your heart. He may not be better than Jesus, but he’s not half so overrated. Jeff Fucking Mangum. You better recognize.
Jeff Mangum (left) with an unidentified entity, whose name and affiliation are unknown at this time.
How to identify: Chin length brown hair, tendency to talk or sing to himself, almost doubtlessly followed by a crowd of stunned and frantic people in corduroy pants immediately running to the nearest computer upon seeing him so they can post what a description of what he’s wearing on Wikipedia.
Current whereabouts: Unknown. Recent sources have placed him in the cave adjacent to Osama Bin Laden’s, but many speculate that this is impossible since that particular grotto is occupied by Dave Thomas of Wendy’s fame who some believe to still be alive, but hiding to avoid government censure. Whatever theory you choose to accept, you’ll have to agree that they are all completely insane. No one knows where the fuck this guy is.
Sufjan Stevens
Commonly referred to as “Sss…Stevens” by hesitant hispsters who don’t want to appear sss…stupid, Sufjan (pronouced SOOF-yan, Surf-john, Suff-jan or No, not-Cat-Stevens, the-other-one) is much more than just some doe-eyed darling from the Midwest. He’s a motherfucking God warrior. He is one of maybe 2 people alive who can properly fold a fitted sheet, therefore proving his relation to the divine and consequential God-like powers. Best not fuck with him.
Sufjan Stevens (top center) and his Illinoismakers (anywhere but top center): On the top of a short list of adorable people you don’t want to fuck with.
How to identify: Baseball cap (sans baseball team), eroticly parted lips, dressed like something no sane person would ever be dressed like unless they were at a pep rally (but then again sane people and pep rallys are pretty much mutually exclusive occurences), careful avoidence of sin by use of the word “gosh”, the sudden urge you have to cuddle him and feed him soup.
Current whereabouts: Writing one album for each of the 50 states, possibly the one right next to you or possibly even yours. Considered armed and extremely snuggly. Awwww.
Andrew Bird
Andrew Bird looks just like any fledging poet who you’d find in your local vegetarian café. That alone should inspire an instinctive loathing in you, but trust me, this man is far more deadly than your normal bundle of dyspeptic angst. He has been implicated in dozens of gruesome murders, including a possible contact on Jeff Mangum supposedly instigated by the dread Sufjan Stevens. His latest, critical acclaimed album is entitled The Mysterious Production of Eggs, which some claim was inspired by a particular de Sadean episode involving a pregnant women, three chickens and fifty feet of rubber tubing and razor wire.
How to identify: Coffee cup, case which he claims contains violin (yeah, I’ve heard that before), stylish blazer, strange flutelike whistle of death.
Professional whistler/assassin Andrew Bird (center, behind cup) has been described as possessing a unique sound, a quick wit and a certain gusto for unnecessarily removing people's fingernails with pliers.
Current whereabouts:Most likely his farm in western Illinois (more connections to Stevens emerge by the day!), the exact location of which has not been disclosed. Most likely so he can feed anyone who unknowingly steps on his land to his pigs.
Well, I’m off to watch some soft-core porn serious cinema based on some good old fashioned epic poetry. Keep alert!
Jeff Mangum
Bitch, I shouldn’t have to tell you. He’s the man, the myth, the legend, wrapped up in a Fair Isle sweater and sent direct to your heart. He may not be better than Jesus, but he’s not half so overrated. Jeff Fucking Mangum. You better recognize.
Jeff Mangum (left) with an unidentified entity, whose name and affiliation are unknown at this time.
How to identify: Chin length brown hair, tendency to talk or sing to himself, almost doubtlessly followed by a crowd of stunned and frantic people in corduroy pants immediately running to the nearest computer upon seeing him so they can post what a description of what he’s wearing on Wikipedia.
Current whereabouts: Unknown. Recent sources have placed him in the cave adjacent to Osama Bin Laden’s, but many speculate that this is impossible since that particular grotto is occupied by Dave Thomas of Wendy’s fame who some believe to still be alive, but hiding to avoid government censure. Whatever theory you choose to accept, you’ll have to agree that they are all completely insane. No one knows where the fuck this guy is.
Sufjan Stevens
Commonly referred to as “Sss…Stevens” by hesitant hispsters who don’t want to appear sss…stupid, Sufjan (pronouced SOOF-yan, Surf-john, Suff-jan or No, not-Cat-Stevens, the-other-one) is much more than just some doe-eyed darling from the Midwest. He’s a motherfucking God warrior. He is one of maybe 2 people alive who can properly fold a fitted sheet, therefore proving his relation to the divine and consequential God-like powers. Best not fuck with him.
Sufjan Stevens (top center) and his Illinoismakers (anywhere but top center): On the top of a short list of adorable people you don’t want to fuck with.
How to identify: Baseball cap (sans baseball team), eroticly parted lips, dressed like something no sane person would ever be dressed like unless they were at a pep rally (but then again sane people and pep rallys are pretty much mutually exclusive occurences), careful avoidence of sin by use of the word “gosh”, the sudden urge you have to cuddle him and feed him soup.
Current whereabouts: Writing one album for each of the 50 states, possibly the one right next to you or possibly even yours. Considered armed and extremely snuggly. Awwww.
Andrew Bird
Andrew Bird looks just like any fledging poet who you’d find in your local vegetarian café. That alone should inspire an instinctive loathing in you, but trust me, this man is far more deadly than your normal bundle of dyspeptic angst. He has been implicated in dozens of gruesome murders, including a possible contact on Jeff Mangum supposedly instigated by the dread Sufjan Stevens. His latest, critical acclaimed album is entitled The Mysterious Production of Eggs, which some claim was inspired by a particular de Sadean episode involving a pregnant women, three chickens and fifty feet of rubber tubing and razor wire.
How to identify: Coffee cup, case which he claims contains violin (yeah, I’ve heard that before), stylish blazer, strange flutelike whistle of death.
Professional whistler/assassin Andrew Bird (center, behind cup) has been described as possessing a unique sound, a quick wit and a certain gusto for unnecessarily removing people's fingernails with pliers.
Current whereabouts:Most likely his farm in western Illinois (more connections to Stevens emerge by the day!), the exact location of which has not been disclosed. Most likely so he can feed anyone who unknowingly steps on his land to his pigs.
Well, I’m off to watch some soft-core porn serious cinema based on some good old fashioned epic poetry. Keep alert!