The return of Everett True | 65. No Jaws
I keep telling folk bribery will work. I have no idea why people don’t listen.
Failing that, try flattery. Make sure it’s sincere, though. Cue a message left on Twitter*.
Mr. Thackray may tear us apart. But perception of a man who percepts so well is recognition enough.
This new Song of the Day sounds like something so obvious it becomes painful to type it so I don’t type it just imagine that I haven’t spotted it instead because if I imagine I haven’t spotted it instead I can enjoy the song on its own merits and if I can enjoy the song on its own merits that means I can have me a good time and if I can have me a good time that that means I’m happy and they’re happy and you’re happy and the whole fucking world is so fucking happy it pains me to even type these fucking words cos frankly I despise great steaming chunks of the world out there and I don’t want it to be happy or even partway happy but even so I refuse to admit that this song doesn’t touch me in certain sections of the solar plexus the way certain music always touches me in certain sections of the solar plexus. Yes, Cell B-side I’m looking at you. (Lotion. Of course I mean Lotion.) (Check the provocatively-titled blog entry two songs that I’ve been meaning to track down for nearly two decades if you don’t know what the fuck I’m going on about and sometimes I frankly worry even myself.) Or, to put it another way: the entire reason Pavement got offered a million bucks or whatever pittance it was for them to swallow their pride and dignity and reform a couple of years back – fuck man, I’d have done it for a hundredth of the price – was THIS.
And this alone.
This band No Jaws. I know nothing about this band No Jaws, except that they used to be called The Buyable Sluts Wanted For Stealing Virginity until Facebook refused to allow them in.
They’re so clearly from mainstream Europe – this being 2014 and all – it FUCKING PAINS ME TO TYPE THE WORDS.
I love this song though. No, not this (though I love that as well). This one.
‘Cabin Fever’ they call it. Sure. I’ll go along with that. Slackers always did go crazy: they never did like being cooped up inside and yet they could never be bothered to venture outside. Too hot. Might be raining. Don’t have the right flannel to hand.
Betcha they drink in public and scrawl marker pen on their hands.
I miss having beer poured over my head in Seattle bars by feisty female rockers.
MORAL: treat people like shit and they’ll behave like shit. Music critics are people. Treat ’em with even a modicum of respect and they may respond favourably. Respect being such a rare currency in 2014 and all.
*I ain’t stupid. I did also notice they left similar messages for Frances Bean Cobain and podcaster Alex Goldman (whoever the fuck that is). Still, at least that means they’re sparing in their flattery.