And I Fly to a Place Called Reality

In a quarter of an hour I depart for reality.  No one will have these fantasy conversations in my surround, these “Cover me in eyeballs!” conversations, these conversations which are really only the pomp mentioned in association with the circumstance of the pointless changing of hands of untold monies that occur in the industry of attention-getting.

Monies told, tallied, and kept dear and near the boardroom gents and lady-gents, of course.  Pardon me for talking day-jobs.

At times words and phrases turn of their own accord, thank God.

Art Brut, “slap-dash for no cash”, as it were, plays day four of their Mercury lounge residency tonight.  Yours truly will be in attendance, and I alight from my perch in the mud to peak above the rim of the towering lotus.

Rock ‘n roll, please, all powers that be.

Some sweet-ass edits:

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The Record-buying Public Shouldn’t be Voting

“How am I supposed to sleep at night when no one likes the music we write? The record-buying public– we hate them. This is Art Brut versus Satan.”

This is a band after my own heart.

The new Art Brut, produced by the Pixies’ Frank Black, is absolutely deserving of the hype currently dripping off the tines of the forks of the avant pop devourers.

“Slap-dash for no cash- those are the records I like”, lead vox Eddie Argos recounts, describing his own recording’s aesthetic while poeming dithyrambs for the hot, rough and tumble recordings that were championed and lovingly given nativity by slop rockers like The Replacements. In their track with that band’s name in the title, the chorus is the flabbergasted rhetorical “How have I only just found out about the replacements? Some of them are nearly as old as my parents. How have I only just disovered the Replacements?”.

Fucking brilliant.

“Art Brut vs. Satan” (Art Brut)