What I did tonight instead of watching Wire
By Everett True
I clutched – and while clutching, drowned.
I drove – and while driving, drowned.
Four old men on stage, and the din they make is cacophonous, pleasing: a drone of disillusionment and anger and sweet, sweet melody. That guitar. Those drums. Those vocals. Good on ’em. Time doesn’t stay still for these four old men (three men and a boy, if you want the truth) but it does for me and so I can’t listen to their fine music. I want to be watching a band that can make me feel secure and self-righteous in my helpless impotence – in my useless, spurned lust; in my bile-creating bitterness. I want a band of old men that swear and cuss and curse and want to FUCK EVERYONE, not mutable smart intoxicating electronic No Wave that changes and shifts. I want to feel self-righteous in my stasis. I want Primitive Calculators. And so I leave – straight out of there after the photographer’s maximum – walking swiftly past the girls in the leather dresses and envying them their delight in discomfort. And so I leave – cursing the support band Per Purpose for not bothering to show up till their final song (much like their obvious hero Malkmus, in fact), and wondering if Mark E. Smith will ever call to ask for his riffs back. And so I leave – cursing the road works on Ann St, or wherever it is, that ensure I can’t find a park for 15 minutes thus missing all bar two minutes of the band I’ve turned up to see, the monomania retro Cabs dressage of too-smart boys Multiple Man. And so I leave, useless and unloved.
I clutched – and while clutching, I drowned.
I drove – and while driving I thought, wouldn’t it be sweet oblivion to close my eyes right now and never wake up again?