If I'm 50 years old and passionately arguing in favor of racist and xenophobic deportation policies as evinced by a political candidate who most closely resembles an overstuffed bag of moldering oranges on a message board dedicated to a flailing and decrepit music festival, you all have my permission to take me out and shoot me in the spine. Shoot me twice if I'm showing outward support for a musical abomination like Grouplove.
What you got back home, little sister, to play your fuzzy warbles on? I bet you got little save pitiful, portable picnic players. Come with uncle and hear all proper! Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You are invited.
it's a warm day in sunny phoenix and our hero slowly sips his gin as the sun finally rises above the rocky outline to the north. It's bright, blinding almost; thank god the hangover means his sunglasses were already on. valley of the sun no doubt.
He slowly looks down the list of the suspect's priors. some remind of him of his own youth, the salad days and the wild nights. others cause his eyes to squint slightly; a furrow arising in his brow along well-worn lines. maybe it's the headache. maybe it's creed.
There are some telling clues to be had here; Pearl Jam seated right up top. No code, number one with a bullet, a shiny hollow point like the ones in our hero's revolver, that he lazily swings around his finger before downing another finger of gin. "That's fucking interesting man" he thinks to himself.
He scans further down the list...The Bends, Rage, Tragic Kingdom, Blue. Lots of the stuff on his rap sheet could have been culled from a list of SPIN's 90's darlings. Couldn't be a girl, our hero thinks, "More women have loved me than Phish. And I'm not counting the madams."
No, this is a suspect who got his first taste of the game from the local college or alt-rock station, which opened his eyes to the geetar. Then he raided his dad's crates for the Floyd, Zeppelin, Hendrix - the usual suspects. Probably that Petty album too. Our hero remembers wildflowers,and not the ones that poke out of the cracked pavement between the dry roads of this desert town. None of our hero's friends sang it's good to be king with him; they didn't know it. That was Petty before Mary Jane. kids didn't care unless their parents did. "Maybe the suspect is older than I give him credit" he shrugs. He sits up in his chair before he slumps away to sleep.
Our hero shakes his head. "fucking monster." R.E.M. Radiohead. picked the rockers. "Seems our suspect is locked in the punch."
The punk and post punk revival - probably came into his own as he neared the end of high school or got to college. found napster. Lots of against me! here. Our hero can abide that sentiment - that's how feels about the world. Another slug of gin, and he slams the glass on the desk and holsters his gun.
Probably got stoned with some college co-ed listening to sublime and woo'd her to bed with that postal service album. "She musta been one in a million..." Our hero whispers, sarcastically wistful. He frowns and spins in his chair away from the window to his desk. His forehead hits the desk with a thud and he stares at the worn oak below, his head not hurting as much as the sentiment.
"Let's run through this again." Another quick scan. Hmm. Our Lady Peace and Tragically Hip? Could be canadian. not enough hip for Tripperfish. not enough garage noise for Boner. Our hero doesn't know any more canadians. "maybe I do - ha!" he drunkenly laughs to himself. "who gives a shit. this list probably belongs to someone from florida. We got enough of those assholes around here." He pours himself another finger of gin, toasting FloridaMan.
He pauses, glass to his lips, drops of gin hitting his desk as something catches his eye. Two Cow Garage? People like them outside of Ohio? How does a small time alt-country band sneak onto this list. The pros woulda used a big timer like Uncle Tupelo, Whiskeytown. Young guys might have copped to an early Wilco or Jacksonville City Nights. This looks local. Our hero closes his eyes. Ohio.