(no subject)
I haven't written much this year, and I haven't been around as much as I would have liked to, but I do like to think that my obsessive pimping of the Mountain Goats to all and sundry is having some effect. If you like the band, or even if you don't, you might enjoy Last Plane to Jakarta, John Darnielle's blog about everyone else's music, where he is currently posting, on a more-or-less-daily basis, "Thirty Short Poems About My Favorite Black Metal Band."
The poems vary in quality, but the man can write, as any Moutain Goats fan already knows, and so there are some searingly beautiful passages. My favorite whole poem so far, though, is Sixteen, a defense of fannishness.
sixteen
Every time I misplace a one of the three Drastus records I own
I spend a whole morning trying to locate it
whether I'm in the mood to listen to it or not.
I rummage through boxes filled with CDs I haven't listened to in years.
I open closets where no-one has ever put anything even remotely musical.
There are only coats in there.
Why are you opening the closet if you are looking for the first Drastus album.
It's not going to be in there.
When I locate the missing disc
I will announce victory whether anyone is around or not.
"Aha, it was right by the fireplace!"
"So, you thought you could hide underneath an old phone bill!"
"Fuck yes! Can't get another one of these, you know!"
--since only a thousand were pressed.
Some people think of their obsessive tendencies
and feel shame, or guilt, or embarrassment.
They talk about wasted hours they won't be able to get back,
and make jokes about how they'll look back on their hobbies with regret
when they are lying on their deathbeds.
I hope that the priest who delivers my eulogy
dwells for a ridiculously long time
on how, when I'd misplaced my Drastus albums,
which tended to happen a lot because I was forgetful,
I often spent whole mornings trying to find them
and took great pleasure in having tracked them down.
The poems vary in quality, but the man can write, as any Moutain Goats fan already knows, and so there are some searingly beautiful passages. My favorite whole poem so far, though, is Sixteen, a defense of fannishness.
sixteen
Every time I misplace a one of the three Drastus records I own
I spend a whole morning trying to locate it
whether I'm in the mood to listen to it or not.
I rummage through boxes filled with CDs I haven't listened to in years.
I open closets where no-one has ever put anything even remotely musical.
There are only coats in there.
Why are you opening the closet if you are looking for the first Drastus album.
It's not going to be in there.
When I locate the missing disc
I will announce victory whether anyone is around or not.
"Aha, it was right by the fireplace!"
"So, you thought you could hide underneath an old phone bill!"
"Fuck yes! Can't get another one of these, you know!"
--since only a thousand were pressed.
Some people think of their obsessive tendencies
and feel shame, or guilt, or embarrassment.
They talk about wasted hours they won't be able to get back,
and make jokes about how they'll look back on their hobbies with regret
when they are lying on their deathbeds.
I hope that the priest who delivers my eulogy
dwells for a ridiculously long time
on how, when I'd misplaced my Drastus albums,
which tended to happen a lot because I was forgetful,
I often spent whole mornings trying to find them
and took great pleasure in having tracked them down.