Fragile As Anarchists
We released three songs today. Titled Unforgiven 6-1, Unforgiven 6-2, and Unforgiven 6-3, they are, as the titles suggest, interrelated and coagulated. They are also short; all three clock in at around three minutes - combined. Brevity is welcome, especially around me, as I have the tendency to be a tad long-winded when it comes to lyrics and this blog. The English language is quite large, depending on what counts as a word; and there are estimates ranging from a quarter-million to a million words available at my disposal for misuse and rendering. It’s a lyrical candy shop out there.
I adore these three pithy songs. While I like many of our other songs better, both lyrically and musically, these three tiny tots seem to capture an energetic, consistent, no-nonsense approach. As I mentioned, I tend to be quite the opposite. It felt good to simply spew and be done with it. It felt necessary.
The direct approach is a good vehicle for expressing dissatisfaction, especially for the seemingly perpetually dissatisfied. It’s like slamming a door, breaking a window, or punching a congressman. It brings along a much more pure sense of fulfillment. Not that many of our songs are opuses, but they tend to be overstocked with language. Furthermore, we are oft-criticized for not writing any happy songs; all the Super Sunday Hamster Blender work tends to be bitter, angry, cynical, jaundiced, depressing and downright accusing. At best, a song may approach the softer realm of melancholy. A blog entry here from February 2006 testifies to and belabors this fact.
We are certainly not a miserable lot. Our band practices are an overload of ticklish bad puns and impromptu helium-hearted songs about mimes and a guy named Bernie, with the occasional kitchen utensil being thrown at Gene. And I can honestly say I have never met anyone more pleasantly planted than our drummer, Ray (not to say Ray is ignorantly happy; Ray’s activism against the current administration and ne’er-do-wells in general is admirably harsh).
Although I am sincerely blessed to be allowed to write most of the words, I believe the band shares a collective dissatisfaction for the inherently dumb-ass world that surrounds us. Sure, we contribute to the dumbosity (by making up words, for example), but, dammit, we hate the American Idolization of the United States. We do not like being manipulated, whether by the media, politicians, celebrities, or Rick Springfield.
When I was in junior high, my friends and I used to make “hate lists.” At the top of the first page was the phrase “I hate…” followed by pages and pages of the objects of discontent. I recall “extension cords” being on there. It was pretty exhaustive.
Having allegedly matured, instead of lists, we write and perform songs. It’s fun. In this world of half-wits cross-screaming on Fox News, an MTV laden with whorish marketing and prostituted music, and people who actually admire and respect the remarkable meaninglessness of Paris Hilton, we have a lot to feel superior about. Our music is our own simple brand of anarchy, tucked safely in the confines of Gene’s basement.
So three, short songs emerge from the maelstrom. Somewhere immersed in these songs are tenets of frustration, aimed at those sucked into a life of being a commonplace utensil in a coerced and hoodwinked society. Aimed ultimately at myself, really; I can distinguish my own hypocriticalness. Sometimes you have to write out what’s the most frightening to you, what shames you deepest. It’s not about recognizing and granting personal forgiveness; forgiving oneself is a destiny of failure, of giving your self the pre-baked excuse, the easy out. The faux pas of satisfaction. It’s about the ugliness within and what we think about that, what we do about that – accept or reject, debate or debacle. Write a song or three.
It’s a weird little circle; how the endless disenchantment results in a opportunity to be happy, to become undeniably content with three globally insignificant songs; driving to work, listening to each one over and over and over with complete and guiltless satisfaction. For me – and believe me, I am wallowing in my own selfishness and I really don’t give a fuck otherwise except for my band mates' opinions which are all that matters and all that is required; no disrespect to anybody else because these are OURS – these songs are brilliant. As a band, we assembled three mini-masterpieces with great thanks to the mediocrity of our culture. An energetic, consistent, and no-nonsense response is a wonderful remedy to the disillusionment of high-definition stupidity.
I know this music won’t change a thing in the big picture. I know only a handful of people may even listen to them. I don’t expect three minutes of distortion and 250-plus words to be worthy of more than a few contemplated or amused moments on anyone’s behalf. Except my own. It changes everything to me. Practicing these three songs seamlessly in a row on a Thursday night; well, that is my religion. My sanctuary from the retarded. Driving home from Gene’s, ears still resonating, I can admit that extension cords aren’t really all that bad.
I adore these three pithy songs. While I like many of our other songs better, both lyrically and musically, these three tiny tots seem to capture an energetic, consistent, no-nonsense approach. As I mentioned, I tend to be quite the opposite. It felt good to simply spew and be done with it. It felt necessary.
The direct approach is a good vehicle for expressing dissatisfaction, especially for the seemingly perpetually dissatisfied. It’s like slamming a door, breaking a window, or punching a congressman. It brings along a much more pure sense of fulfillment. Not that many of our songs are opuses, but they tend to be overstocked with language. Furthermore, we are oft-criticized for not writing any happy songs; all the Super Sunday Hamster Blender work tends to be bitter, angry, cynical, jaundiced, depressing and downright accusing. At best, a song may approach the softer realm of melancholy. A blog entry here from February 2006 testifies to and belabors this fact.
We are certainly not a miserable lot. Our band practices are an overload of ticklish bad puns and impromptu helium-hearted songs about mimes and a guy named Bernie, with the occasional kitchen utensil being thrown at Gene. And I can honestly say I have never met anyone more pleasantly planted than our drummer, Ray (not to say Ray is ignorantly happy; Ray’s activism against the current administration and ne’er-do-wells in general is admirably harsh).
Although I am sincerely blessed to be allowed to write most of the words, I believe the band shares a collective dissatisfaction for the inherently dumb-ass world that surrounds us. Sure, we contribute to the dumbosity (by making up words, for example), but, dammit, we hate the American Idolization of the United States. We do not like being manipulated, whether by the media, politicians, celebrities, or Rick Springfield.
When I was in junior high, my friends and I used to make “hate lists.” At the top of the first page was the phrase “I hate…” followed by pages and pages of the objects of discontent. I recall “extension cords” being on there. It was pretty exhaustive.
Having allegedly matured, instead of lists, we write and perform songs. It’s fun. In this world of half-wits cross-screaming on Fox News, an MTV laden with whorish marketing and prostituted music, and people who actually admire and respect the remarkable meaninglessness of Paris Hilton, we have a lot to feel superior about. Our music is our own simple brand of anarchy, tucked safely in the confines of Gene’s basement.
So three, short songs emerge from the maelstrom. Somewhere immersed in these songs are tenets of frustration, aimed at those sucked into a life of being a commonplace utensil in a coerced and hoodwinked society. Aimed ultimately at myself, really; I can distinguish my own hypocriticalness. Sometimes you have to write out what’s the most frightening to you, what shames you deepest. It’s not about recognizing and granting personal forgiveness; forgiving oneself is a destiny of failure, of giving your self the pre-baked excuse, the easy out. The faux pas of satisfaction. It’s about the ugliness within and what we think about that, what we do about that – accept or reject, debate or debacle. Write a song or three.
It’s a weird little circle; how the endless disenchantment results in a opportunity to be happy, to become undeniably content with three globally insignificant songs; driving to work, listening to each one over and over and over with complete and guiltless satisfaction. For me – and believe me, I am wallowing in my own selfishness and I really don’t give a fuck otherwise except for my band mates' opinions which are all that matters and all that is required; no disrespect to anybody else because these are OURS – these songs are brilliant. As a band, we assembled three mini-masterpieces with great thanks to the mediocrity of our culture. An energetic, consistent, and no-nonsense response is a wonderful remedy to the disillusionment of high-definition stupidity.
I know this music won’t change a thing in the big picture. I know only a handful of people may even listen to them. I don’t expect three minutes of distortion and 250-plus words to be worthy of more than a few contemplated or amused moments on anyone’s behalf. Except my own. It changes everything to me. Practicing these three songs seamlessly in a row on a Thursday night; well, that is my religion. My sanctuary from the retarded. Driving home from Gene’s, ears still resonating, I can admit that extension cords aren’t really all that bad.
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7:06 PM
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