The other day a guy came in the record store who looked like he took a bunch of sleeping pills, went to a tanning salon and lost. He looked like Hellboy drinking and spilling bloody marys and sangria with wild abandon, if Hellboy had more of a Steve Urkelesque frame. He looked like a solid freckle here to warn us of the fierce powers of the sun. He asked if he could leave demos of his music for give away. I was excited. He seemed to possess a rare gift for composing particularly awful music, the kind of stuff that sounds like a bad acid trip personified, nails on a chalkboard (remember chalkboards???) with Gilbert Godfrey singing lead and Bobcat Goldthwait on backing vocals. He asked should I put my name on the demo? I guess it all depends on the intention, but if your intention is to bring attention to your art, Id assume a name would be essential. The demo he left was covered in dirt, and illegible handwriting and was moist to the touch. I would have put a condom on each finger before handling it if that was an option, instead I got two paper towels together and put the cd in the player. I promised a review. Well, the cd was covered in so much sludge and scratches that it wouldnt play. The cd looked like it could write an autobiography to rival Keith Richards, it had lived, it had seen things, it had known triumphant highs before the unseen alleys of lost ghetto erosion. Sorry for the lack of promised review. Lets just assume it sucked.
Posted on: Tue, 12 Aug 2014 17:55:48 +0000
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