I’ve had about enough of Hamilton. Hamilton is a hard city. I’m not hard. Despite my online meta-terror, I’m a gentle, compassionate, and conscientious human being. It’s not important to me that people think I’m tough. It’s not important that people fear or respect me. Respect and about 5 dollars will get you a sandwich from the bakery across the street.
The populace loves those sandwiches though. The guards come from Barton Street Jail can’t get enough of them. In warmer weather, knuckle-dragging blue collarites pull up in their pick-up trucks and stock up on sandwiches. Then they loiter outside the aforementioned trucks with pissed off looks on their faces, devouring sandwiches, with the Foo Fighters or Nickelback cranked, glaring at anyone foolhardy enough to glance in their direction. You don’t want to piss off a pick-up truck driving, sandwich-eating, Foo Fighter/Nickelback loving knuckle-dragger in Hamilton. You’re bound to get a bang-shang-a-lang.
I’m really leaning toward leaving. Hamilton is a great city. It takes care of its own and has a great sense of community. It’s come a long way, particularly in the arts. There is something about it though. There is a hardness to it that irks me. Maybe I’m just getting old.
The music scene is definitely shit. With the exception of Jamie Problem’s monthly Sunday Slamfest, it’s a big joke. It’s not who you know out here, it’s who you blow. And when you’re not really the blowing type, you just kinda fall flat. Although it’s my orator fallacies that shoot me in the foot, as opposed to oral. But to be fair, bands like Nashville Pussy and The Dickies shouldn’t be out here playing to empty rooms.
Yesterday I picked up my custom Strat from my tech. I call it Strat to save time but this thing was built from scratch. It was built for me. It was built for my specifications. I’m going to make a brand new record of brand new songs written on this guitar. I’m going for something a little less punk, more sludgy. Very guitar oriented. Vocals low in the mix. I’m excited as hell. It will still be a poppy lofi endeavour. The tech referred to my guitar as #33 So I’m going to call her 33.
While in St. Thomas I stopped by Skin CIty to see my best man and muse, Trole. He hates it when I call him that but I hate cauliflower. Life is just life. Trole spent an hour packing in as many words of wisdom as he could, the way only he can. A goodlier musician and human being doesn’t exist. Trole is as real as it gets.
Lastly. The album I am going to post is the greatest lofi-garage pop record ever made. It makes Jay Reatard’s Blood Visions, sound bland in comparison. I’m a big Jay Reatard fan, don’t get me wrong. I’m just better. Plus I’m more prickly and obnoxious.
I challenge haters and fans alike to listen to this record in its entirety. Don’t do it while you’re doing something else. Go home and get stoned or drunk or indulge in whatever substance you’re too weak to give up. Lay down with speakers on either side of your head and allow me to take you to beautiful and dark places. This album is a complete masterpiece melodically, lyrically, and production wise. There is no better record. Get off your high horse and forget whatever your cut-rate band is trying to accomplish. Submit.