What I did last night instead of going to see The Necks play live
I thought about how good The Necks sound on record, and how refined I would have felt watching their refined, exploratory jazz at the Old Museum where bats fly out from under the rafters. (I tried to find a review to link to so you could engage viscerally with their music without the tiresome bother of having to click on a YouTube video but as their music – which is intriguing and rather haphazardly fun to experience – mainly seems to attract a particular type of male dickhead critic fan, The Guardian excepted, I decided better of it.) I would have felt so fucking refined, though.
I thought about how much I love that Hinds video. You know the one. Such enthusiasm is usually infectious.
I listened to the sound of cicadas, piercing so loud.
I noted that frogs don’t stop croaking if you clap your hands twice.
I played Song of the Day 121 and Song of the Day 123 to Ed G, the man behind that great Indiewolf, Wolf-Wolf and Pearbear review for Collapse Board so long ago. I thought he’d appreciate them. He appreciated them.
I missed Hinds.
I miss Hinds.
I thought about how when I saw The Breeders play two nights after Beyoncé, all I could think of was “they’re not Beyoncé”.
I thought about how music criticism isn’t about the good or the bad, the mediocre or the wonderful. It’s about the stories.
I took a photograph of mushrooms.