a recipe, a laundry list, intervallic leaps and melodic nodes
Big, black, and brightly lit up on the inside, the damn tour bus rolled right past our front door as we were heading back in from walking the J-monster back to her car. It's not really a safe neighborhood after dark, you know... ya. It's not bad. i love the constantly lurking element of uncertainty - across the street, passing in front of the door but never looking in. Is it dangerous, or is it just displacement? Displaced. i wonder if that's how they feel sometimes, inside that bus. There were two of them earlier, behind the fence. And two more vans pulling trailers parked alongside. Must have been a big show. We drove by earlier on the way to somewhere else entirely and read the marquee: The Academy Is. Whatever that is. Heard of them, i have. Heard them, i have not. (was taking in a little Star Wars with the monkeys)
So the bus rolls by and i stare wistfully as i always do, only this time i don't want to jump on board. This time i stand on a cliff, watching the youngest battalion march out into the killing fields, and i simultaneously: wish them well, hate them for their station, hope they come back alive, hope they consume themselves, wish i could go back in time and steal their dumb luck, feel i'm the luckiest man alive to be standing where i am.
i've always been fascinated with tour buses. Probably always will be. i don't even care who's inside, or what kind of music, or even if it's filled with musicians, tho i always imagine they are. It's a childhood dream that clings to me forever like cobwebs made of super glue. Like the little girl who always dreamed of being a princes, and how she still gets weepy over glittery dresses and tiaras tho she's got a little girl of her own and life was never kind enough (or wise enough) to place her on that train. There was a time, not so many years ago that i would have done just about anything for that ride. i would have gladly stepped on toes and heads and sliced through identities, wrists, throats, broken bottles, hearts and dreams to have my name on a bunk. To watch the world slide by through rolling windows and backstage doors, six months at a time, a year, more... To be blinded nightly by the colored lights and the twenty or so faces you can actually see from there. Twenty or so faces and a rolling bed. i thought that's all i would ever need.
Back inside i pull them up to see what they're like, and it's no surprise, really. Just another cookie-cutter with a pretty-face-singer and film/art-school drop-out lyrics inspired by bad junior high poetry. They look like they're in high school. All day these guys have been wandering around our place (they must have gotten here very early) and every time one would walk by you could tell he was in one of these bands. It's like they've all been issued a standardized uniform from the record labels, with your choice of shirt color and hair length thrown in for a true sense of "identity". You can smell them, musician types. Even if they suck. Even if they sound like every other candy-coated mall vomit the Hot Topic kids are calling music these days (fuck, i sound old). Eh. i'd rather sound like a jaded old rat than get paid to spew meaningless tripe to a bunch of illiterate twelve-year-olds. Still i wish i could understand what makes bands like this so popular. They're on the same label as Panic! at the Disco and Paramore, so obviously the business minds behind them have some marketing savvy. Get the young'uns - that's where the money is! i've been watching a steady stream of youtube videos to cleanse my mind of the nasty taste the current wave has left me wallowing in: Gang of Four, The Alarm, Jesus and Mary Chain, The Cure. A told me to think about the songs that really moved me as a twee, like "Sinking" (Cure) and then look at the clones that eat this shite and perpetuate it, and here, folks, we have a prime example of just another facet of the dumbing down of America.
i bought a suit today. A really nice one. i can't wait to wear it out to the next fancy function we feel so obligated, yet very happy to attend. They have free booze at those things. i like booze. i like people who think and who see the value in truly good art.
So the bus rolls by and i stare wistfully as i always do, only this time i don't want to jump on board. This time i stand on a cliff, watching the youngest battalion march out into the killing fields, and i simultaneously: wish them well, hate them for their station, hope they come back alive, hope they consume themselves, wish i could go back in time and steal their dumb luck, feel i'm the luckiest man alive to be standing where i am.
i've always been fascinated with tour buses. Probably always will be. i don't even care who's inside, or what kind of music, or even if it's filled with musicians, tho i always imagine they are. It's a childhood dream that clings to me forever like cobwebs made of super glue. Like the little girl who always dreamed of being a princes, and how she still gets weepy over glittery dresses and tiaras tho she's got a little girl of her own and life was never kind enough (or wise enough) to place her on that train. There was a time, not so many years ago that i would have done just about anything for that ride. i would have gladly stepped on toes and heads and sliced through identities, wrists, throats, broken bottles, hearts and dreams to have my name on a bunk. To watch the world slide by through rolling windows and backstage doors, six months at a time, a year, more... To be blinded nightly by the colored lights and the twenty or so faces you can actually see from there. Twenty or so faces and a rolling bed. i thought that's all i would ever need.
Back inside i pull them up to see what they're like, and it's no surprise, really. Just another cookie-cutter with a pretty-face-singer and film/art-school drop-out lyrics inspired by bad junior high poetry. They look like they're in high school. All day these guys have been wandering around our place (they must have gotten here very early) and every time one would walk by you could tell he was in one of these bands. It's like they've all been issued a standardized uniform from the record labels, with your choice of shirt color and hair length thrown in for a true sense of "identity". You can smell them, musician types. Even if they suck. Even if they sound like every other candy-coated mall vomit the Hot Topic kids are calling music these days (fuck, i sound old). Eh. i'd rather sound like a jaded old rat than get paid to spew meaningless tripe to a bunch of illiterate twelve-year-olds. Still i wish i could understand what makes bands like this so popular. They're on the same label as Panic! at the Disco and Paramore, so obviously the business minds behind them have some marketing savvy. Get the young'uns - that's where the money is! i've been watching a steady stream of youtube videos to cleanse my mind of the nasty taste the current wave has left me wallowing in: Gang of Four, The Alarm, Jesus and Mary Chain, The Cure. A told me to think about the songs that really moved me as a twee, like "Sinking" (Cure) and then look at the clones that eat this shite and perpetuate it, and here, folks, we have a prime example of just another facet of the dumbing down of America.
i bought a suit today. A really nice one. i can't wait to wear it out to the next fancy function we feel so obligated, yet very happy to attend. They have free booze at those things. i like booze. i like people who think and who see the value in truly good art.