Things this year pt. 2

The pathetic declinations of those scrambling to be part of something they weren’t– when all you hear after the fact is paltry summations, indirect observational histories and poor sports. I grew up in the lineage of hardcore punk rock. I claim no ownership other than an unhappy knowledge: I’m part of the club, the tribe, the conditioned membership of getting older and moving on. But like anything of any worth it can get slowly misdirected towards an alien mission, a smelly end unforeseen. Iron Lung refuses all that. They refuse. And they make albums that sound like you throwing your membership card to the blender, to the open maw of infinite culture. They side step power-violence becoming a meaningless summary mission — the entry password to a scene not so unlike the T. Cruiser bumbling through Kubrick’s orgy, where ultimately there’s nothing but fucking, boredom, and loveless advancement. Nope, this is bash and control. This is heartsick and no cash. This is a rose in the lapel and dried curry on the sleeve. This is movement at the expense of regret. I’m along for the whole duration, and I’m laughing at all the jokes. No tunes to hum, no songs to sing. And there’s nothing left to give.

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Too many times I’ve fallen on some sort of inner cultural relativism to explain my love for a song. To hear something so perversely itself makes one wonder what the whole criteria should be. I have no explanation. I breathe and I listen. My friend dances, while I sit. She asks for the album. I give it. Because it is joy.

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