Who Killed Amanda Palmer?
Doug let me borrow his copy of Who Killed Amanda Palmer. Haven't had a chance to really listen to the whole thing yet but what I've heard so far, I like. It feels stronger in a more subtle and mature way than the Dresden Dolls. It's both intense and beautiful, even when the lyrics hurt. And bonus Neil Gaiman write-up on the back of the case, excerpt below:
Like you, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard Amanda Palmer had been killed.
Like you, I know no more than that. Killed, yes. But by whom and how none of us ever knew. There was nothing ever said about it on the television or the radio. But we knew, we knew.
Rumors multiplied. I met a Hell's Angel in a bar in Encino who swore blind that he knew a man who claimed to have crushed in Amanda's skull with lead piping, on behalf of a crazed ex-boyfriend.
It became a national obsession. "Who killed Amanda Palmer?" bubblegum cards were traded and traded again in schoolyards across America. I still own two of them: one shows Amanda's bullet-riddled corpse dangling from a wall the other shows dangling from a wall; the other shows her body washed up on the shore of and unidentified lake, her face blue and puffy from the water, the claws of some crustacean pushing out from between her purple lips.
I remember the candlelight vigils, and the shrines, dozens of them, in cities all over the world, spontaneous demonstrations from people who no longer had an Amanda Palmer. They lit candles and left behind telephones, scalpels, exotic items of underwear, plastic figurines, children's picture books, antlers, love.
It's morbid and gruesome at times and tragic and altogether awesome. I want to hear more of this story, both of her life and death. I want my own conspiracy theory. It completely feeds into my love of albums with an idea, a concept, a story behind them that ties the whole thing together.
Free music in m4a format:
Astronaut: A Short History Of Nearly Nothing
Leeds United
Guitar Hero
Like you, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard Amanda Palmer had been killed.
Like you, I know no more than that. Killed, yes. But by whom and how none of us ever knew. There was nothing ever said about it on the television or the radio. But we knew, we knew.
Rumors multiplied. I met a Hell's Angel in a bar in Encino who swore blind that he knew a man who claimed to have crushed in Amanda's skull with lead piping, on behalf of a crazed ex-boyfriend.
It became a national obsession. "Who killed Amanda Palmer?" bubblegum cards were traded and traded again in schoolyards across America. I still own two of them: one shows Amanda's bullet-riddled corpse dangling from a wall the other shows dangling from a wall; the other shows her body washed up on the shore of and unidentified lake, her face blue and puffy from the water, the claws of some crustacean pushing out from between her purple lips.
I remember the candlelight vigils, and the shrines, dozens of them, in cities all over the world, spontaneous demonstrations from people who no longer had an Amanda Palmer. They lit candles and left behind telephones, scalpels, exotic items of underwear, plastic figurines, children's picture books, antlers, love.
It's morbid and gruesome at times and tragic and altogether awesome. I want to hear more of this story, both of her life and death. I want my own conspiracy theory. It completely feeds into my love of albums with an idea, a concept, a story behind them that ties the whole thing together.
Free music in m4a format:
Astronaut: A Short History Of Nearly Nothing
Leeds United
Guitar Hero