The relentless need to create. Gotta hit record. Don’t care about the chords and words. We’ll play what we mean and say what we think. It’s the epitome of rock and roll spirit, which launched itself to death from the broken window of the Four Seasons or wasted away in the dankness of Chateau Marmont sometime in the 70s. Punk was a defibrillator but three chords and youthful exuberance was DOA. It was dressed in the finest Goodwill patchwork as 90s youth apathetically paid it tribute when its corpse was basically carried around by Jonathan Silverman and Andrew McCarthy for 97 minutes (equivalent to 5 years in alterna-years). But the past is now buried under the mounds of pop and celebrity. There is no phoenix rising, just a new breed rallying around a new cause under the fallen’s flag. How Victoria’s Fountain fit is still being discovered, but a band with familiar angularity attuned to fellow Canadians Women and the hip mental aptitude to get out of a song like so few have understood, there’s a sense of a new blood claiming salted earth. Maybe there is still a pulse to be found somewhere, or perhaps it’s time to remember rock was never dead, just in and out of rehab. It’s all rather cliched but the singular ray of light streaming from Fountain will light the way to that trunk full of barbiturates and moonshine that will fuel a new era of caring.
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