That's not a true story. I don't wear rabbits. Just when I could imagine folks approaching me at the totally rad parties I go to, saying things to me like:
"You seem like someone who's really plugged in." To which my best answer would have to be: "It's cause I'm the plug, man." A short cry from saying "I hate myself. Now that you're here, help me justify my boredom-induced solipsism, you bottom feeder." Not to hit too close to talking about the 2007 Tom Sizemore movie, a damn good year for the S'more Man.
Back to the tunes: These ladies have got the dry, surf garage down. How dry? So dry I feel like putting their tape on and taking a vermouth bath. Or maybe I'll bathe in tape and pour vermouth on my record player. Jesus Christ, I guess this is the day I sit around dealing with what can never be. Suppose you stop standing around with an empty cup, staring at me: would you be able to refill and make another round, try to find someone who didn't sound like they despise you as much as they despise themselves?
And just when you think the Quebecoiselles got the garage rock vibe on lock, they hit the francophone button and go full speed. Don't stop me: I'm making magic here. My words are goddamn original scripture.
If you like music, and you like it when music comes to your hometown, drop five bucks on the band's album from--wait, what?--one fucking year ago. Guess I'll trade in those psychic pasties for a big ass bottle of Jay Dub. Thought I hadda talent for this type uh thing. Guess my parents were high when they told me I'd be a suck-sess. Guess I'll just kick back and say fuuuck iiiiiiiiitt.
By the way: don't click on the top hat link unless you deal well with sensory overload. Also, it's not a bad idea to kill an hour on a Sunday google-mathing the phrase "psychic pasties." Boy or girl--just sayin...
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