This Band Sucks

I saw Field Club play at O’Leaver’s this weekend. Here’s a photo I took with my...

Mon, 20 May 2013 20:08:06 -0500

I saw Field Club play at O’Leaver’s this weekend. Here’s a photo I took with my iPhone:

I just spent twenty minutes reading Hearnebraska. You may have left the This Band Sucks, but the This Band Sucks never left you.

Greatest writer on nebraska music? So an insecure person with an english degree?

Fri, 03 May 2013 15:23:00 -0500

I sense your jealousy.

Hey man- you were right on the money most of the time and a gifted writer but definitely not "the greatest writer to ever narrate the Nebraska music fairytale".

Fri, 03 May 2013 15:21:59 -0500

No actually I am.

Chapter 2

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 18:09:00 -0500

Without drawing too much attention to myself, I thought I should say something about the end of This Band Sucks:

I apologize to my faithful readers (there are many), and, conversely, to anyone who never understood a word of what I was saying (because the moment you understand, it ceases to be about you).

I don’t want to retain my anonymity simply for my own sake. What even is my sake, properly speaking? I don’t want credit for the things I’ve said because my name spoils the project. Yes, this is a project, but it is not mine; the radical experience of Music must change into the experience of music-in-itself as radical negativity.

Is it possible that absolutely no one understood me? I would not be surprised if this is the case. Writing about musicians taught me to believe in my self again, like a child, and to stop believing in everyone else. If I don’t like most things, then I like my memories.

This is a goodbye from the greatest writer to ever narrate the Nebraska music fairytale. I have a lot of people to not thank, a lot of paranoia to carry home with me each night. Nothing improves. Everything just splits and splits and breaks. Goodbye, at least for the foreseeable future.

Isn't it weird how certain individuals who play music very poorly in this little music scene you concern yourself with are often the ones who talk the most shit? Fostering a "punk attitude" as a way to cover up their insecurity about how poorly they play and how much they hate themselves. Playing extra loud and sloppy under the disguise of creating "something new" when in reality they have next to no talent or creativity. Popularity is the end goal. I'm pretty sure I know who writes this.

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 17:01:11 -0500

Okay but you like my blog, right?

so I know you don't hate everything. what local music do you like?

Mon, 01 Apr 2013 19:58:00 -0500

I have a few local bands that I kick around in my head from time to time. Of course, my personality is so irrevocably split that it’s difficult to conceive of an ideal, totalized version of myself, much less that this “self” could unconditionally like anything.

But we all have to listen to something. At the end of the day, I guess there are three musicians/bands that I find myself returning to: Black Jonny Quest, Video Ranger, and Good Show Great Show. These three bands most broadly represent what I think is necessary in local music culture: a cultivation of community and creative person-to-person inspiration; a local sense of originality, flavor, or that special distinctive something, yet within a larger, cohesive national “scene” or movement; a geographical/cultural balance between Omaha/Lincoln, from rap to punk with everything in between; and also, April Fools. I fucking hate music.

New Omaha Band Roundup

Sun, 31 Mar 2013 17:55:00 -0500

⊗ Coaxed: former members of Capgun Coup, Ty Segall, and Sun Settings; new tape sounds like somebody left a Thee Oh Sees record in the microwave for too long.

Why you care: they’re fresh off a tour with killer blow. Joining them on their tour was the husband & wife duo, Killer Blow, local monogamy-core with a beach/surf vibe straight out of Hurricane Katrina.

Upcoming shows: Coaxed will be playing at The Slowdown in April on even-numbered days, Hotel Frank on odd-numbered days.

⊗ Twinsmith: when Sun Settings broke up to form Coaxed (above), the Omaha music scene was deeply shaken. How could we replace such an innovative and pioneering voice in our angelic Omaha choir? Thank god for Twinsmith; instead of developing their own sound, members of the now-defunct Betsy Wells have spent months in the studio striving to bring you exactly the kind of music Sun Settings stopped making about 5 or 6 weeks ago.

Thank you, Twinsmith.

Why you care: you can find Twinsmith online at facebook.com/Twinsmithband and twitter.com/twinsmithmusic and soundcloud.com/twinsmithband and instagram.com/twinsmithband and twinsmith.com and twinsmith.edu and twinsmith’sbutt.com and getrich_quick_with_twinsmith.biz and twinsmith_isnt_racist.gov and fat_TWIN_cocks_punish_anna_nicole_SMITH.co.uk.

Upcoming shows: April 6th at O’Leaver’s with Water Liars, Field Club, and nobody in the audience.

⊗ Pleasure Adapter: when Betsy Wells disbanded so they could focus on the daunting task of writing even less-talented Sun Setting songs (as Twinsmith, above), they shocked the world, but Jeff Ankenbauer didn’t cry about it.

I mean, he almost cried. It was tough. But he held it in.

Let’s keep this a secret between you and me—Betsy Wells’ breakup was hard on Jeff. He was so distraught that for a while he quit making music altogether; he’s lost a ton of weight, along with his urge to kill.

Why you care: Now Mr. Ankenbauer is back on the scene, and this ex-Shanks ex-Saudi Arabia frontman just wants everyone to “get along.” Go ahead you stupid piss-drinkers, you fucking pussies: go ahead and listen to these cute little songs he made.

Upcoming shows: you can hear Pleasure Adapter’s music playing during game show introductions, the final boss of 90’s-era Nintendo games, and at Japanese video arcades.

⊗ Goon Saloon: three guys choose a shitty band name, and play even shittier heavy rock in the vein of Pavement and STNNNG.

Why you care: because you are good at pretending to be supportive of your friends.

Upcoming shows: let’s face it, you’re not gonna go see this band play.

Anybody read today’s HearNebraska?

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 10:27:08 -0500

Anybody read today’s HearNebraska?

I appreciate your candor. Do you think Lincoln band Time Hammer sucks?

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 22:56:00 -0500

My shrink told me that I need to write on this blog more. She said that it “stabilizes my identity,” and does a good job of “positively asserting my associations with a pre-established sense of reality.”

For this reason, I will answer Time Hammer’s question. But my present mental state requires that I do so in bi-partite, dialogic fashion. Here goes.

Part One: 1/2 of my personality responds to the question, ‘Do you think Lincoln band Time Hammer sucks?’

Yes.

If you are reading this blog right now, then chances are you’re a degenerate piece of shit slop filth. But it wasn’t always this way, was it?

No, it wasn’t. You used to be young and innocent. You used to believe. You might once have even sat your unblemished butthole on the seat of your parents’ car while they drove you to Crossroads Mall, where, in one of the formative moments of your young musical life, you coughed up three weeks of lawn-mowing cash for a Weird Al Yankovich CD.

(If you don’t know, Weird Al writes “parodies.” He takes famous songs and changes the words to make them completely ridiculous. Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” becomes “Amish Paradise,” and Don McLean’s red white and blue classic, “American Pie,” becomes an epic about Star Wars: Episode 1. It’s a gimmick, and it’s supposed to be funny.)

As an honest-to-goodness rap-rock outfit with song titles like, “I’m Gonna Lose My Mind (On My Blog),” and, “I Like 2 Rap,” Time Hammer shares a lot in common with Weird Al, except for the part where nobody’s parents drove them to Crossroads to buy a Time Hammer record, ever.

Someday, at the end of a long, prolific life fraught with song parodies and what I’m sure many of us suspect to be pedophilia, Alfred Matthew “Weird Al” Yankovich will lie upon his deathbed (as we all do) and be forced to reflect upon his questionable legacy: a dense compendium of songs he only half-way wrote, a failed acting career, crimped brown hair, a world of adoring fans who are (without exception) either elementary school students or office workers who retained their virginity unto death—oh, and he will be fucking rich.

I’m Gonna Lose My Mind (On My Blog) by Time Hammer

Which brings me to my point: living takes effort. It’s hard enough to get out of bed in the morning. Recently, I’ve noticed my left hand shaking when I don’t drink fucking mezcal before work. Needless to say that, aside from blogging, I do almost nothing for free.

Despite the fact that Time Hammer was an idea that probably took 20 seconds to think up and execute—song lyrics in the vein of, “cheese and meats and lettuce, and sprouts, it’s what it’s all about, when making a sandwich you can use sauerkraut; PB&J is my favorite everyday, brightens up my life when things get gray,” a lyrical mode which actually encourages writing the first piece of shit that pops into your head—recording and playing and touring and memorizing take effort. I don’t mean a “shaking off a clingy turd” effort (which is, sometimes, too much to ask in and of itself), but a foundational piece of your identity, time-taken-off-work-to-record-or-perform, “take band photos and aggressively insert yourself into the gaping Nebraska-music orifice” type of effort.

Most people would think that dressing up like an idiot, writing rock-raps about blogging topics—family pets, egg nog, Dancing with the Stars—and then inviting your friends, who already have enough to deal with in their lives without having to pretend to care about your first foray into the world of intermittent psychotic breaks, to pay $5-12 to see you play make-believe like an oversized child; most people would think about doing this and ask themselves, “why bother?”

But not Time Hammer. In the ultimate quest of attention-snatching, the songwriting tag-team of Joe Younglove and Travis Beck manages to leave no erroneous stone unturned:

Facebook? They wrote about it. Marijuana? Done. Nonsense dadaist/surrealist automatic writing? Check, and check.

And for what? Is it simply that, in order to express some vital component of Mr. Younglove’s soul, he needs to spread the message about how “his business is the is-ness,” or how “k-k-k-keepin it real is the shiz miss?”

Can you imagine Weird Al Yankovich, the local musician? Hopping on shows with Green Trees or Omni Arms, $5 a pop, twenty people in the crowd? Working his day-job, penning rhymes over his lunch break, waiting to cop the Maha main stage and finally make it big?

No. You can’t. Because in that scenario, Weird Al would not be “funny” or “cute” or “charming.” He would be terrifying. He would be a clown who never takes off his costume. He would be, Time Hammer.

God save us all.

Part Two: the other half of my personality responds to the question, ‘Do you think Lincoln band Time Hammer sucks?’

No.

I am often concerned by the naive anti-elitist elitism of culturally clued-in idiots. Today’s overarching cultural question revolves around authenticity: where do we get it, who has it, or does it even exist? Well, I am here to tell you that if it exists, you won’t find it by listening to music.

Here’s a thought experiment—think of all the people in the world who make music, as if they are a thin line stretching into the millions:

Now think about the past, and all of the people who have been making music for years:

Now think about how many of those people did anything that mattered or was original, i.e. think about how many people were authentic:

I fear that many people find self-definition or, even worse, meaning in their various musical affiliations, whether it be through identification with a specific geographic scene (the Omaha sound!), or a genre (dub-step), or some other mode of bracketing and classifying the various noises that occur in this sad, misguided universe of ours. This is the phrase, echoed like a prayer: “music is my life.”

As for me, I’d rather be dead.

Because, like well-dressed chameleons, the vast sea of morons who are culturally “in the know” end up borrowing the authenticity of geniuses. By listening to J Dilla, his fans somehow act as if they wrote his fucking songs. By writing shitgaze music, the musician feels as if he invented the genre.

In reality, there is very little agency involved in almost all of those facets of our personalities that we believe make us unique. You do not choose to like the music you like. It takes no effort on your part. If you don’t agree, then try to imagine yourself liking something other than what you like. Does this make sense? No. You are not some special snowflake who has, by force of will, found yourself discovering the objectively superior treasure trove of musical riches that this world has hidden away, only for you to uncover. Instead, this treasure trove discovered you, and you laid there while it consumed you.

Liking a song is easy. By saying, “I like this song,” you have conquered nothing. Just the opposite: you have been conquered.

Which brings me to my review: Time Hammer’s album, Hot Nails, punches every last one of the world’s self-important assholes squarely in the balls.

Time Hammer is like Jonathan Richman on weed: zero pretension, 100% chill. In a world where musicians are tearing their guts out to make their listeners feel something, songwriters Joe Younglove and Travis Beck are finally calling a spade a spade: everything sucks anyway, so let’s just do that.

There is no authenticity here, which is, in a way, its own form of authenticity. If music has heretofore hung its hat on “originality,” or “danceability,” or “creativity,” or “emotion,” Time Hammer suggests that perhaps, if music has a goal, then we have been searching for it in all the wrong places.

Which direction should music take? Time Hammer does not make this entirely clear. It’s like John Cage’s “Four minutes, thirty-three seconds,” in the sense that it is represents a glaring hole, a gap in a long continuous chain of “presence,” of self-satisfying originality and meaningfulness in the emotionally bloated Lincoln music scene.

I cannot sit here and in good faith suggest that you actually listen to Hot Nails, but I can guarantee that it does not write any checks it cannot cash. It does not promise what it can’t deliver. It is “music,” in the mechanized sense. It is that which is alien to itself, necessary for its own self-actualization. It is, Time Hammer.

God save us all.

Clippings:

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 10:07:00 -0500

— Omahype.com

— Omaha mayor and frequent face at local DIY shows, Jim Suttle

Anyone check out yesterday’s Omaha World Herald?

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 13:25:29 -0500

Anyone check out yesterday’s Omaha World Herald?

And everybody will be smiling all the time and wearing big cowboy outfits

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 03:07:00 -0500

Thank you for indulging me. I really do hate writing about music:

Survey: what were you listening to the last time you masturbated?

Sat, 16 Feb 2013 00:29:00 -0600

A few months ago, ex-Eagle Seagull member Eli Mardock licensed his music to X-Art.com, a website that makes porn. I’m not going to delve too far into this topic because it has already been covered in some depth here.

I will say that X-Art’s schtick is “tasteful” porn, without the traditional anger of an old-fashioned vaginal ass-whooping. In case you don’t know, everyday porn goes down like this: an über-male world class bodybuilder who also happens to be a highschool math teacher confronts his teenaged student—who is wearing a plaid skirt with no panties—in an empty classroom. After the student begs for an A, the teacher plops his 19-inch dong onto her desk, and he spends the next 3-25 minutes trying to murder her with it.

The anger is not one-sided. Typically, the tiny little schoolgirl is a fireplug, jerking his 3-foot pole with a hatred that most people reserve only for themselves. (it’s like, if she makes him ejaculate hard enough, maybe she can travel backward in time, maybe she can have those last three semesters of community college back, when she decided she didn’t need to get into nursing school anymore, because she had a one-way bus ticket to Los Angeles and a dream of becoming a star—that little girl from the past, whoever she was; maybe she could tell her something. Maybe she could talk some sense into her. Maybe not.)

X-Art.com, on the other hand, is not so rape-o-philic: high definition cameras, tasteful lighting, love, two docile bodies rolling together on the couch, and, now, Eli Mardock. Below I have posted X-Art’s “Young and Hot,” featuring Mardock’s original, “Cut Me Open,” for your visual/aural consumption :

I am only writing about this (while Tim McMahan has already covered it so delicately) because using porn as a vehicle for your musical career is such a bad idea that I almost have to admire it. Seriously, who says to himself:

“You know that thing that I do a couple of times every week, which I never tell anyone about, and I always take ridiculously elaborate precautions to make sure no one catches me doing; that thing I do that involves a lot of shame and embarrassment and self-loathing, and afterwards I delete my internet browser history, I wipe up and flush every last trace of what happened so that I can immediately repress and conveniently forget every moment of partaking in it—that is, if I ever did partake in it, which I don’t—until I can be sure that no one ever knows, not even me, so that I can go outside and face my children or mother or girlfriend and pretend that nothing, nothing at all, ever happened, because I never ever speak of that thing that I don’t ever do.

You know that thing?

Yeah, I was doing it the other day, and I heard this song and stopped and thought, ‘this is pretty good,’ and then I ejaculated into my sock.”

This is the impossible scenario that I, personally, imagined, and it sounds pretty stupid. But I guess the joke is on me, because apparently thousands of new fans have been doing exactly this, evidenced by Mardock’s steady surge on Youtube. As one commenter perspicaciously noted about the video for “Cut Me Open” (above):

Thankfully, Mardock’s work as a pornographic soundscape technician does not contribute to some far-off, practically imaginary yet timeless, paternalistic regime of subordinating the female image to nothing more than a location of male desire. As user KeyraBuns69 points out:

I used to think Mardock’s music made me sleepy. Now I can only listen to him in bed, with the lights off and the door locked, gently slapping my meat hammer. Mardock is doubling the pleasure with this pinnacle of aural/oral spectacles:

…that is, until crazy old Bruce Hurley shows up and has to go make things all weird (again!). Haha, Bruce:

music reviews coming soon

Happy Valentine's Day

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 20:07:43 -0600

“I must particularly insist that the formula ‘respect for the Other’ has nothing to do with any serious definition of good and evil. What does ‘respect for the Other’ mean when one is at war against an enemy, when one is brutally left by a woman for someone else, when one must judge the works of a mediocre ‘artist,’ when science is faced with obscurantist sects, etc.? Very often, it is the ‘respect for Others’ that is injurious, that is evil. Especially when it is resistance against others, or even hatred of others, that drives a subjectively just action. And it’s always in these kinds of circumstances (violent conflicts, brutal changes, passionate loves, artistic creations) that the question of evil can be truly asked for a subject. Evil does not exist either as nature or as law. It exists, and varies, in the singular becoming of the true. ”

—Alain Badiou

Kicksharter: a warning to young partiers

Mon, 04 Feb 2013 23:29:00 -0600

Local filmmaker Benito Sanchez is graduating from UNL’s Johnny Carson Film School, which means he is probably an intolerably over-networking, self-obsessed “artist” with a “vision” for his senior thesis, which is at once both a “film” and part of his deep and effusive “soul.” Remember, I’m only guessing here.

His thesis film is purportedly about an artist who falls in and out of love, “something I think a lot of us can relate with,” says Mr. Sanchez. A lot of us, but not me.

The film incorporates a true-to-life, guerrilla aesthetic mode entitled “cinéma vérité.” This fancy French phrase means that the film is shot amidst a backdrop of absolutely real, possibly unwitting, unscripted “life.” This unpredictable style can be risky for any filmmaker, but the director feels he can overcome its dangers to ultimately “deliver a product that is unique, and most importantly, rings true.”

Wrong again, Dr. Sanchez.

In the preview provided below, a young man and woman light firecrackers together. They are standing by trucks, they are on a highway bridge; surprisingly, Kirsten Dunst does not read a poem over this montage. It is a cold and lonesome night, but they have their love to keep each other warm. Unfortunately, just as the couple is walking upstairs into what will most undoubtedly become an interracial amateur sex scene (with facial), the girl gets a big stick up her ass and makes the guy go home. What a tease.

Save the tissues for your eyeballs, gentlemen, there will be no BDSM tonight:

This preview comes from Mr. Sanchez’s Kickstarter page. He is trying to raise $2,000, a number too small to be ambitious, too large to not be annoying.

Of course, there is an implicit cost to this “cinéma vérité” nonsense, and you won’t find it listed on the Kickstarter. It is not a donation, it is not something Mr. Sanchez is openly asking for, but instead is something he will furtively snatch away from you: Mr. Sanchez wants your identity. You work hard to establish your impregnable, secluded, and genuinely authentic indie culture, right?

Tough luck. You can’t copyright a party, and Mr. Sanchez will now be filming you at social gatherings and house shows (at your precious Hotel Frank and whatnot), he will document your tom fills and your bong rips, and then he will put them into his movie.

If you feel violated, you could console yourself by saying, “Hey, at least he’s making art. I mean, an underspoken movie about a guy and a girl in love, walking around. I can’t believe nobody has thought of this before.”

As much as I love vaguely creative visual stimulation (fireworks—who would have guessed?) coupled with an agonizing sense of romantic tension that mirrors the imaginary drama of a director’s insignificant life, which will most assuredly seep through the cracks between the silence and the smiles and the generally romantic emptiness of what goes unsaid between two lovers (because, nevermind the director’s duty to the viewer—we are talking about a real artist here, an auteur, whose shit is stinkingly original, so that the viewer’s duty is to the director; we are all indebted)—as much as I love all of these things, I would consider it a personal favor if, next time this cast and crew shows up at your party, you usher them off the premises.

Tell them to come back with a permit, and a fucking clue.

Bad Ideas

Fri, 01 Feb 2013 03:39:00 -0600

The following is a Benson First Friday (BFF) lookahead for all of those fans who just don’t understand my art:

Hey thisbandsucks, do u like music?

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 23:38:00 -0600

I used to like music when I was 10 or 11. However, I soon realized that no musician has ever contributed to society in a meaningful way (ever). This revelation made me feel sick to my stomach, so I decided to become a high-level Walmart executive instead. Now I write blog entries during my lunch break and I am very rich.

(Keep us in your prayers—Walmart on Saddle Creek. And I don’t mean the record label, plebes)

Guest Column: Outlaw Con Bandana

Fri, 18 Jan 2013 19:03:00 -0600

Many of you know about the drama and hardship that has unfortunately come to re-define much of Outlaw Con Bandana’s musical career. At this point, Outlaw has virtually disappeared from the local music scene. Instead of writing and performing, Brendan Hagberg (Outlaw’s mastermind) has spent the last few years sailing a sparsely-manned sailboat in the (fucking) ocean. If he ever does perform, it is almost always for charity, or to fundraise for his seafaring voyages.

But anyone who thinks he wasn’t beloved can go see Teal Gardner (UUVVWWZ) and court-jester Rachel (HERS, Wayward Little Satan Babes) cover his song, the divine “Visiting Lights,” tonight at HearNebraska’s “Take Cover” benefit (although I can’t say I recommend it). You could also just watch this video of Hotel Frank younglings drunkenly singing along to every word of “A-10 Blues”:

You may not know it, but I have come in e-mail contact—occasionally prolonged e-mail contact—with a number of Nebraska’s music luminaries. I first began e-mailing with Brendan in November, and I found him to be highly (though playfully) disenchanted with the power of both the singer and the song:

“I think I quit trying to succeed as a song writer at least two years ago, and for all the right reasons. Here’s to hoping more of my friends will get the picture too some day. The others, I hope, will keep it up until way into their golden years. It’s fun to watch now from the outside.

What a mess, though, from the perspective of one who feels like their life’s work is wasted on the wrong time and place. Of course, that is the common sentiment. ‘I made this, so someone must find it valuable.’ I actually wondered about that when I was little, once. It turns out to be what we all were thinking.”

Professor Hagberg writes like a man who’s done. A man on his death bed, reflecting, trying to be honest with himself while he still has the chance.

Whether or not this is the case, his fixation on failure and futility caught my attention (of course), and I inquired as to whether he might lend some of his lyrical prose to my blog. I asked what he envisioned himself writing, and he responded:

“I want to tell some stories about the ugly first person vanity of the fool who tried to be a worthy singer in this empty and pandering era. The message is quit trying. What a waste of one’s productive years.

Most unpardonable is that there are absolutely no hipsters out here on the water, in the islands and thereabout living any adventures. There is a void in the realms of adventure, which might be filled by dreamers and poets, fakers or true. Fucking tour vans be damned. A wasted wasted generation is at stake and already mostly lost. Maybe it would be helpful for some of these kids to recapitulate, and decide on a more honorable path.

We don’t need any more songs for records or shows. There are no songs being played, and no fires being lit upon the empty beaches of all the shores that I have ever seen. No brotherhood. No genuine culture exists in this country. It is a holocaust. I worry about the boats sitting empty after the last of my father’s generation dies off for keeps. They are gone anyhow, as they no longer write or sing or burn for one another anyhow.”

It is true. There is no adventure at the Slowdown, at the house show, in ARC studios. There is beer, or vanity, or a heavily suppressed sense of pathetic existential urgency. But there is no adventure.

It is with this thought in mind that I give you This Band Sucks’ first ever guest entry, a “tour diary” from not a musician, but a sailor. Music isn’t art, not any more than almost dying at sea, terrified, is beautiful:

“Outlaw Tour Diary

January 13, 2013

Day off today. Looked into Craigslist for an outboard motor for my dinghy. The old Merc that was given to me by the obese Saint of Pleasing Flatulence at Vero Beach finally packed up. The drunks here in Tarpon Basin, Key Largo, all gathered around to lament its passing as I rowed my dinghy into the dock off of Derelicts corner. One and all they walked over to me and offered us a tow if I should ever wind up blown by the winds into the mangroves. A good bunch of veterans, I gave them what was left of my old gasoline. Took a walk to the gas station, bought Pearl a juice and we split a sandwich. When I asked the guys at the dock if they might know of anyone who would trade a used motor for my sweet little acoustic guitar they all started to shuffle off in different directions with their heads down. Captain Tony told me that guitars are a dime a dozen down here.

Oh yeah. I guess that a lot of dreams like that get blown into the other side of the mangroves.

Captain Tony left it at that. He inquired no further as to what kind of music I did or whether it was original. He reminded me to go across the road and ask about the job at the hamburger stand.

January 12 2000

Played the bench at El Retiro from 7 to 11 am. I only made about eight hundred Pesetas, but got along better than average with the rest of the performers in the park. One guy from Michigan who’s been over here in Spain for seventeen years told me he would give me a “Mil” every morning if I came to his bench and held his spot until 8am.

He does a tightrope walking routine. It always culminates in a big buildup for the Camino Del Muerte. As he ascends the rope, he counts ‘a uno, a dos,’ and then he slips off of the rope, whacking his nuts while intoning the falsetto ‘a tres!’

What a fucking ham.

A ‘mil’ will only buy me a pack of cigarettes and maybe a beer in the cafeteria, but I can’t seem to sleep through the night anyhow. I keep having those paralytic nightmares where I reach out from the bed with my terrified eyes only. Its funny how only the men tip you here while the ladies won’t even look at you.

January 11, 2005

Alexander Martin signed me up for Myspace today, and I already have thirty fans. Looks like the record is coming out at the end of next month. I keep calling my buddies asking around if any of them might help me pick up a couple of dates on their tours somewhere. Gotta start someplace. Playing O’leavers again tonight with a band that Simon sent my way. That makes twice this week. I hope we don’t start wearing out our little group of stalwart listeners.

It’s pretty hard to do this shit straight, but hopefully I’ll get into a groove at some point. It sure beats the shit out of yelling curse words at my Mom. If she comes I’ll sing one of her favorite songs for her.

Wow, another thirty Myspace fans!

I’ll have to send them all a nice note of thanks. Seriously, this could lead to something. I hope that Mom comes to the show. It sure is nice to be free. I can’t quit thinking about her coming to see me in the Lincoln jail. What a mess this last year has been.”

This Band Sucks will request one more guest column from Outlaw in the coming weeks. Who knows if he will oblige? If you would like to submit a guest column, contact me at go@fuck.yourself.

Are you sad that Sun Settings is disbanding?

Wed, 16 Jan 2013 21:40:40 -0600

Not really, no.

Collecting my gold watch, retiring myself to death

Sun, 13 Jan 2013 00:10:00 -0600

I recently received an e-mail that bothered me. I won’t name names, but let’s just say it came from a certain writer for a certain Nebraska Music website who wrote a certain 2013 prediction list. I was a little annoyed because, in his e-mail, this mysterious writer took credit for bringing me “out of retirement.”

Who said I went into retirement? What, a guy can’t go through a month or two of bone-crippling depression, he can’t vow to never speak another foul word about his fellow humans, his gentle soul-brothers and soul-sisters (with which he suddenly feels infinite kinship, instantaneous and absolute sympathy in our silent despair, connected with my automatic spirit-brethren as tiny droplets in the glorious ocean of humanity—praise Jah), without people thinking he “retired?”

If I ever did retire, it would take more than one article written by one neophyte to draw me out.

(Note to the mysterious writer: you wrote one [one: 1] article that many people seemed to enjoy. Now go out and do it again, and again, and again, wonder boy.)

No, it would take far more than a blowup doll’s gossip column to pry me away from the eternal bender that is blog retirement. It would take something sexier, something aimed directly at my own head, something like:

1. Shitty Copycat Bloggers — Have you read the latest anonymous Omaha music blog? It’s called Omaha Kuntz, and it was written by somebody who never once thought, “maybe I should proofread this.” You can always tell when a writer is smoking too much marijuana because of a certain disconnected nostalgia, a certain literary excess that says, “It has never occurred to me that not all of my thoughts are extraordinarily interesting.”

Omaha Kuntz is not my peer or colleague, or my partner in crime. I would gladly come out of retirement if only to say, “Dude, we are not friends.”

2. The breakup of Sun Settings — Just kidding.

3. The exquisite female form — I have always thought that anonymously writing my incendiary music opinions would help me get a girlfriend. Yet for some unknown reason I remain alone. Jenna Morrison (Conduits) doesn’t know my name. Sarah Bohling (Icky Blossoms) has not responded to the increasingly frantic love-letters I’ve been sending. The disappointment is enough to send a man into early retirement.

If there is anything keeping me going, it is the vast, untapped reservoir of beautiful den-mothers who populate the Omaha music scene. I am obsessed. I watch The Mynabirds’ “Generals” music video every night before bed (after my customary rye Manhattan with Carpano Antica vermouth and a cap full of mouthwash). I love this video because of its commitment to a classical feminized beauty ideal that turns me, a heterosexual dick-squeezing man, on.

“Generals” endorses that timeless feminine quality that first rose to prominence during the Renaissance—

—and has endured into today’s popular culture outlets. Lessons from Da Vinci’s mysterious and coy Mona Lisa (above) can be learned every day on MTV and in the critically acclaimed swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated:

What is Brooklyn Decker (above) smiling about? I guess we’ll never know.

In particular, I would like to focus on Raphael’s world-famous Sistine Madonna (below). Drink up the boldness of the composition: the lowly devotion yet dignified communality of the two saints, leading in triangular-pyramidal fashion to the apex, the holiness of the Virgin herself.

The curtains part above ethereal clouds like a stage over heaven. The pathetic humility of the saints combined with the sacrosanct luxury of the Virgin creates an iconic celebrity indifference; the steady and infinite patience of the pristine white hand that holds the Christ Child. We, the lowly saints, are lifted by her presence into the theater of Elysium. Thank you, Lady Madonna, thank you.

Compare this to another virginal scene, from The Mynabirds’ heavenly “Generals” music video (below). Observe the feeble and inadequate saints at the feet of the holy and venerable Virgin. Lady Burhenn sits atop the matrilineal pyramid like it’s the wet mouth of God. The pyramid’s apex is the celestial Mynabirds, and its base is the vulgar Hers and the indigent Wayward Little Satan Daughters. Burhenn’s sanctified aspect pulls these two destitute vixens from the stench of their own filth.

Pristine Lady Burhenn, with your skin as pure as the cold driven snow—your tight little booty shorts drive me to madness.

For those who did not follow my admittedly complex yet highly insightful analysis, allow me to explain. There is a feminist pecking order in this town, and the above photograph represents only three of the more recognizable musical faces, each in the appropriate order in terms of both full-fledged babe status and feminist outreach potential.

There is Lady Burhenn (Mynabirds) in the center, with court jesters Rachel and Melissa on each side. Rachel and Melissa feature heavily in the happy-go-lucky pop-quartet HERS. HERS used to be called Honeybee & Hers, but strangers kept referring to them as “The Honeybees,” or would confuse them for two wholly separate bands. Honeybee & Hers used to cover Rilo Kiley songs, but since becoming HERS they’ve only covered Rilo songs.

The court jesters Rachel and Melissa are also the sole members of the riot grrrl duo Wayward Little Satan Daughters. I have provided a video of this band for reference:

Listen to that chorus: “Fuck! You!”

“Fuck! You!” ??

Either this is an invitation to coitus, or it is close-fisted hatred. Quite frankly this band is a little rude. Listen to the song: the drums are off time, the guitar riff is shaky and unconfident. This clip shows how sloppy and angry the court jesters Rachel and Melissa become without Lady Burhenn to keep them in line, both musically and feministically.

Lady Burhenn imparts a godlike sophistication upon the two jesters Rachel and Melissa. Without her, they slip into the realm of “punk,” or “angry,” or “scary.” I am afraid. After watching the above clip, I could not buy coffee for weeks; I feared that jester Rachel was going to beat me up (because I am male). I used to sip mocha lattes and stare from afar (because—I admit—I was in love with the beautiful jester), but no more.

This riot grrrl war-mongering isn’t where it ends, either. I hear that the Court Jesters are raising an army. They call it Club No Quiet. People say it is a gang of beautiful female thugs who find men and beat them with Clubs, and they are Not very Quiet.

This type of femme-vigilante justice is exactly the type of hooliganism that would draw someone like me out of retirement. There is a girl-power totem pole in this town, and Wayward Little Satan Daughters has stepped out of line. I would most assuredly come out of retirement to reconstruct that pole in its proper distribution:

Angry punk nonsense belongs at the bottom of the pole. It is not “art,” as HERS refers to it. It is two berserk, beautiful, unchained monsters who must be reigned in by the calming presence of Lady Burhenn’s creamy white lusciousness. I shudder, fellas. I shudder.

It’s enough to make a man retire.