Dear Abby:
I have been writing/managing for a marginally popular music website for some time now. I have to admit, it’s been fun so far. I’ve analyzed music that defies analysis and read enough examples of hyperbole to permanently explode my bugged-out eyeballs (hell, another one for the road). I’ve dined with kings, banged queens square in the ass, and scaled the tallest of mountains, but I’m starting to feel a bit... scrambled.
It was one thing to review that meandering Taste Of Ra CD or that boorish Fovea Hex drone-strocity, but Rings’ Black Habit is another beast altogether. When I listen to it, I feel like I’m slowly becoming unhinged, like I’ve just taken a double-dose of someone else’s prescription. There’s this girl singing about chickpeas (or some shit) and having things inside of her, and if she’s not the girl from Deerhoof, she’s the girl from Deerhoof, probably. Oh, and these ladies used to be First Nation, but Rings sound nothing like First Nation. A lot of these songs sound like the opening theme of Peanuts cartoon escaped a playpen and whined after it shat itself (and that’s the good songs, like “Is He Handsome”). And, though they’re better than First Nation, they’re not THAT much better.
Worst of all, I don’t know what to say about them, save that I generally am not thrilled with them. But is that because they’re so ahead of the game I can’t recognize their brilliance or because their music is game-y? Is it them or is it me? I mean, because if it’s anyone, it’s me, and I’ve always felt confident in that... until now.
What I’m getting at is this: I’m out of my element, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m worthy of wearing the special Mormon-style underwear P endows his editors/knights with. Nor can I say with clarity that I’m worthy of the special bronze cock P gives to reviewers that, well, suck his cock ‘til it gleams like a spike of burred silver. I’m so scattered, in fact, that I’m writing a middle-aged crackpot columnist to solve my problem rather than dealing with it myself. I suppose that’s the definition of confusion, or stupidity, or both. So, yeah...
Sincerely,
Gut-wrenched in Glens Falls
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Dear G-WiGF:
Sometimes a reviewer has to ask him/herself, “Why am I such a whiny bitch?” If you didn’t want to make the tough calls on the merit of tough-to-classify music, why did you sign up for the one site on the internet that literally won’t review anything unless it’s by (a) Magik Markers, (b) a noise band, c) Magik Markers, or d) Magik Markers? And have you even done your research? Everyone knows that Rings added a member -- Abby Portner -- and subtracted a member -- Melissa Livaudais, which would account for their sudden gear-shift. Man, my peeps and I are laughing our asses off ... at YOU.
So nut up or shut up, lest you get cut up. If you didn’t want to muck through impenetrable tangles of piano, effects, off-pitch vocals, and out-and-out weirdness, you shouldn’t have applied to Tiny Mix Tapes in the first place. Get a real job, ho.
If you have a question for Dear Abby
write her at www.imapatheticdouchenozzle.com
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