Rant: Derivative Crap

Originally posted at Crappy Indie Music.

There is no doubt that other forms of music are a huge influence on anyone creating music in the 21st century. With the huge collection of recorded music available to the modern artist and the speed at which this music comes to us, it becomes difficult to distinguish a bands influences from it's creativity. So what qualifies a band as being derivative? I believe it is the extent to which they are able to synthesize these influences and progress the art form. Derivative music can be traced back to a tiny handful or perhaps just one major influence. Truly good modern music can trace it's lineage to a thousand different influences and a progressive form that pushes the boundaries of how you define what you're hearing. It is said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery. That may be so, but I don't feel compelled to listen to it.

Any decent musician has spent a huge amount of time listening to music; absorbing, reacting, analyzing and deconstructing their favorite recordings. They will have spent innumerable hours listening to their own work and the performances of others and reflecting on what they like about it. Likewise, they have an opinion about what they don't like. Taste is everything in music production. There is little doubt that what you listen to has a deep rooted influence on what you play, they are both extensions of your musical tastes and come from the same place. This is an inescapable fact of music. It doesn't mean that you can't innovate.

Derivative music is music without risk. It is the safe road, the comfortable pair of shoes. It is familiar and does not challenge the ear. Papa Roach is a perfect example of derivative music. It's actual worth as music can be debated endlessly, such things are the realm of taste but even a most ardent fan of their work must admit that there is little innovation present. Their music is a culmination of modern rock radio habits. The song structure that they employ varies by no more than 10% per song. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, out. It is a method that has evolved significantly in the last 30 years and left this particular canker sore of pop music behind. There is nothing distinctive whatsoever about this band, they pass through my ears like every other craptacular band with a Digitech pedal rig and a few bad ideas about songwriting that radio calls "modern rock".

In another sense music that, while derived from a great number of influences, fails utterly to either properly synthesize these influences or innovate upon them is just as bad. Ne-Yo is little more than a place marker sitting on top of twenty years of dull eyed, radio friendly R&B music. It is the culmination of a generation of mediocrity in soul, artists unwilling to take a risk with their sound or truly flex their vocal abilities; choosing instead to play to the least common denominator and appease the lazy listening habits of a pre-defined market. It is a grand example of the major label music form, as bland and lifeless as a bowl of cold oatmeal. The fact is, there is a great deal of room for innovation even within the context of soul music and performers like Ne-Yo fail to even recognize it's existence. If you don't believe me, go listen to Cee-Lo.

In that light there is merit to traditional forms. Soul music is becoming a tradition slowly, and it is still very young. If you want to see the progression of a traditional form that has a longer lineage look no further than bluegrass. Abigail Washburn is a banjo player of considerable skill. This is not why she stands out. Bluegrass is chock full of extremely talented pickers and the dexterity with which they play amazes me constantly. Her talent is in the arrangement of her material, her fine sense of timing and her inclusion of Chinese folk forms in her music. There are deep parallels between Celtic root and Chinese root music but I won't bore you with the technical aspects of this. Instead, look to the beauty and uniqueness of her art. One can draw a direct line between her and her influences and still, we must stand in awe of her brilliant fusion. It is what distinguishes her from so many other bluegrass musicians and it shows a deep commitment to progressing the tradition instead of keeping it locked away in a glass box to be admired from afar.

Broken Social Scene stands in as my example of truly excellent modern music. I can dissect the influences that lead into it, I can analyze the structure and it would take me far too long. It is a finely woven mesh of music, pulling from so many areas of culture that it takes in a life of it's own. It is transcendent art, recognizing it's past while embracing the future. Broken Social Scene is becoming an influence on music moving forward, which is the mark of true innovation. You could debate the relative worth of their contribution to music but one cannot escape the fact that they have made a contribution, which is more than I can say for the vast array of trite, boring crap that occupies so much of popular culture. Even within their collected recordings and side projects there is a remarkable amount of diversity and creativity. They give me hope, they make me think that I'm not doomed to listen to the same music over and over again until I die.

High quality modern music is more than the sum of it's influences. It is a unique synthesis of other musical forms but achieves far more than acting as a single point at the end of an extensive lineage. It expresses the personalities of the musicians involved and ensures that their voices come through in the song. It challenges our preconceptions of what music is capable of and keeps the lifeblood of art flowing forward. It synthesizes and improves on music we thought we knew so much about and keeps people like me from getting burned out and cynical. On occasion an entirely new form of musical expression will come along. Many times it is simply not worth listening to, a great deal of modern music theory revolves around concepts so cerebral, so disconnected from reality that it has little resemblance to an enjoyable experience. I would not presume to know the future history of musical innovation (who in the 60's could predict the rise of hip-hop?) but I can tell you one thing. Influence is no bad thing, there is a considerable amount of synthesis that has yet to be explored and music will continue to evolve. I hope we will always have artists that refuse to be derivative and take big artistic risks for the chance to make me wake up and pay attention.

Short Story: Broken Social Scene - Bee Hives

The swirling dirt and dust around her feet seemed to guide Julie forward, waving in her direction from ground level. Hoping that the air could tell her what last night could not, she followed the tiny vortex down the quiet concrete of the abandoned main street. Two birds flew quietly overhead as she crossed to the other side, still following this jinn of cigarette ash and road dirt. Clouds gathered overhead, threatening to mask the rays of a wan and silvery sunlight that pervaded the atmosphere of Stuart Nebraska.

Julie Wainsworth was not a tall woman. This particular morning she reflected that it is at times an advantage to be short, the wind passed over her while the trees looked as though they might lie down for a nap after straining so long to stand up. She had been born to a mixed family, her mother's Omaha side lost somewhere in the history of family bibles and alcohol and her father's ancestry some uniquely American mix of French-Canadian, Irish and something else. Her mother had been a quiet woman and she inherited most of her features, broad face, good hips, short height and a quiet demeanor. The other people here had always treated her with a distanced respect and she preferred it that way.

All of this past seemed to fade into dream as she continued following the tiny tornado west out of town and into the endless fields of commercial farming and cattle. It always hit her like a punch in the gut, seeing the pesticide laden soil groan under the weight of profit and the endless ambition of American business. Trying to find an audience for her feelings had always been impossible in a town of a few hundred farmers and their kin. Julie spent her nights alone as a child, staring out at the stars from a tree and wishing there was some way out of here, laughing deeply as age and wisdom taught her that "out there" was no different for a thousand miles on either side of the town.

It was mid-morning now and the crowded farm buildings gave way to the open sky and endless fields of their pursuits. Her feet stopped short as the vortex halted suddenly next to an access road, about 20 feet in front of her. It moved very slowly down the access road and she stood there, wondering just what the hell she was doing. She was certain that the bank manager had been calling her mother's house for several hours at this point, she was at least three hours late for her shift. Why did it seem so far away? So unimportant? Fuck it, she thinks and walks down the access road, chasing this tiny spirit.

An hour and a half later, the jinn stopped again near a telephone pole and suddenly dropped it's payload in a poof of dust and ash. Julie coughed and wiped her eyes , red sparks playing against her eyelids and Nebraska trying to force it's way into her throat. As the faerie light of her eyes cleared into the glare of the afternoon, a pay phone resolved into focus sitting next to the pole. It looked as though it had been there for sixty years, wind worn and faded from a life in the wild. A wild pay phone? Is it tamed?

The musings of herds of wild pay phones broke into iron tinged fear as the phone began to ring, piercing the windy solitude of her portable temple. Three shrill rings and she stood there, petrified at the way her day had gone. Silence for a moment, a released breath escapes her lips. The phone rings again and her chest seizes up. It's still ringing. Her hand reaches for the receiver, shaking and terrified. As the earpiece hits her ear and she begins to say hello, her lips freeze mid speech as the tinny speaker springs to life.

A sound like bees swimming through an ocean of digital waves gives way to a guitar in the distance telling the tales of her life. She strains against the hot black plastic to hear each note as the story unfolds in her mind's eye. The ground gives way beneath her, an earthquake lifts the red brown dust into the sky and the farm folds back in on itself. Every emotion of her life is turned into a digital pulse, converted by the aged and worn out telephone system and output through this minuscule electromagnet. Her eyes roll back in her head as the sky stares down at this strange sight, birds chirping their questions at the trees and the trees retaining their knowing silence.

Julie Wainsworth is dead now. That's what everyone in Stuart knows to be true. The county coroner confirmed that heart failure led to her demise. If he only knew how true that was. Her heart had failed years ago, this tiny town had never spoken to her and it was sheer willpower that kept her limping along. I know the truth says the tree. She has gone home across the wires around my fingers. Her body lay at my feet that spring morning, but Julie was racing across the plains, waving her goodbyes to the land that gives us life. Julie was my friend, she lived among my branches as a young-ling and stared at the stars until her tears fed my roots. I know Julie Wainsworth, I know her fears, I know her wishes and I know she smiles now.

Julie Wainsworth is not dead.

Short Story: DJ Cheb i Sabbah: As Far As: A DJ Mix

The low red sun burned through the fog of the last few sleepless nights. I rolled out of the borrowed sleeping bag and onto the hard packed dirt floor of the tent. Camp coffee, cruel black gunk that burned like lava was all that we had left in the supplies so I launched a healthy dose down my throat and got dressed. The clothes I borrowed from Madin three days ago were stale and smelled like I'd borrowed them three years ago. We'd been waiting for almost a week to get into the Bhimbetka rock shelters to see the petroglyphs with our own eyes.

Moving to India in my early twenties was an impulse move. Tired of the relentless pace of Western life and the excesses it brings, I packed a bag and headed to the subcontinent with no real plan. How could I have predicted that that shit would follow me, even here. Now every corner of India is plastered with ads for American products, Internet cafes and cheap knockoffs from up north in China. Authenticity in the age of plastic is a fools dream, but I have always been a fool.

Thusly did I find myself staring at 10,000 year old human settlements squinting in the early morning with Madin, my friend and mentor. Well dosed on shitty coffee we parted the tarps covering the nearest cave and set up our mats just inside. I had been practicing my meditation techniques and learning from Madin since I'd arrived in India and I quickly stilled my mind and peered past the rock carvings and into the earth. I saw the hands of a thousand generations lain upon this stone, trying to see what the carvers had meant so many years ago.

As the glyphs settled into the back of my conscious mind the cave fell away and the scene opened up on the sea of green spread before me. The jungle went on as far as I could see and for the first time I saw the India I had come looking for. The land before even the times of Siddhartha Gautama. The rhythm of the land swept through my mind's eye and shook the last bit of disbelief from existence.

In a rush the world around me blurred as vision ans sensation fast forwarded. Time and space become concepts as I moved through Asia and into Arabia. Before I could catch my breath the mighty empires of the Middle East and North Africa rose and fell in front of me. Egypt ascendant, then nothing but wind blasted monuments to an era long past. The vision swept me north once more, to the high mountain reaches of Nepal. Past the endless expanses of the Tibetan highlands and into the Gobi. When I arrived here the journey stopped.

All of these visions came at once then, threatening to overwhelm me. Just when I thought I could take no more, I woke to the cool inside of these ancient caverns to find Madin smiling softly at me. I lay cold and shivering on my mat inside the cave and confused, my body stiff and sore from what felt like years of sitting.

There it was, in a moments flash. I realized then that this endless quest for the real was but one more illusion to strip from my awareness, one more bridge to cross in life. I bowed deeply to my friend, to the cave and to the thousand hands that came before me. Outside, the air had taken on a new lightness. I realized in that moment that it was I that had become lightness, laughed and put my feet upon the road once more.

Short Story: Jazz Lounge

*This is an old post of mine that I enjoyed enough to send up again, enjoy!*

The blue was almost overbearing. The sky and sea were cartoon clear, mid-June in the Ligurian Sea, just off the coast of Corsica. The sun drenched everything in sight, pulling the teak oil out of the wood of the rented speedboat and shooting it right up my nose full speed. It was competing for space in my senses with a myriad of other smells, sweating skin, the remnants of dockside lunch, blood and the jasmine bouquet of Angeline's shoulders. My god, she really is perfect, I reflected as we hit a wave full force and she launched off the deck ever so slightly, grabbing my arm and smiling. Her teeth were what caught me first. Odd to say, but a woman's teeth speak for her, in more ways than one.

Three days ago I had been lying in a hospital room looking at the mountains surrounding Castiglioncello and wondering just what in the hell had gone wrong. Bryan and I had come to the south of France for two weeks of relaxation, food and serious beach time. It's almost impossible to not have a good time in Marseilles. Especially when you're loaded from a fresh job and with a clean alibi trail leading all the way back three months. It's a shame those plans had to be put on hold. Bryan had clued me into the deal back in March and it sounded fucking perfect. One night's work, thirty years of pay. I had been squeaking by with small time hustles and part time work for a while. Nothing big ever panned out but it never stopped me from dreaming.

The deal was straight forward. Well, as straight forward as these things ever are. African diamonds going to Ukrainian black market dealers for some RPGs and a grab bag of AK47s, pistols and whatever else the Soviets left behind. The buyers were some little known radical faction from a tribal hot zone in the west of Africa. I'm almost certain they were the "Democratic Liberators of Something or Another". They always are. Anyway, the deal was being brokered by some of Bryan's old friends in Amsterdam and for a thirty percent cut, they would let us know where the exchange was and help us find a new buyer in the area. Lawyers. I hate fucking lawyers. But whatever I felt had to take a backseat to these particular lawyers, they were about to make me a very happy and wealthy man.

The one thing I'll give lawyers is that they're detail oriented. We had verified employment in Japan for one of their shell companies, alibis who would swear that we were at their hotel and the receipts to show for it. While our ghosts were working in Sendai (evidently we were contract IT) Bryan and I were mapping Amsterdam and setting up the job. Bryan had lived there in his early twenties so it really helped having him on this. That and his locals kept us in a steady supply of information and good hash. It made for a very pleasant stay. But we weren't here for the weed, not yet anyway. We had work to do.

The plan was simple. The buyers were coming in on a train from Paris and taking a taxi to the hotel a day before. The meet was the next afternoon with our boy so we had about a 12 hour window to relieve them of the diamonds. Hotel security was a joke and the police were far enough away that we could get clean before they arrived on scene.

We walked through the back door courtesy of a very disgruntled and now significantly wealthier cook and made our way to the emergency stairs. Changing into the masks and stripping off our street clothes on the landing, Bryan and I exchanged nervous looks. I hate to disappoint people, but it doesn't matter how long you've been doing this kind of shit, you're always nervous. Professionals just don't let it affect their cool. The door to the room was as promised, unlocked with the master key and opened with a slight click.

Two very surprised looking men were locked into that position permanently as the clack of two silenced pistol rounds opened their minds to the world. Such dirty business. We moved quickly then, scooping up the briefcase, grabbing the keys off both men and re locking the door. Back into the stairwell we headed, pulling back on the tourist outfits and filling our backpacks with the weapons and masks. Thankfully no one was awake and roaming the halls, I hate having to kill innocent people.

Out in the alleyway we met our waiting limo driver and headed off to the train station for passage to Marseilles. I never breath a sigh of relief until the job is done and we were only halfway there. Sitting underneath my feet was about $30 million in blood diamonds and some very bloody keys were jingling around in my pocket. The lawyers were sending their guy to meet us at a resort, Kalenda. A nights ride later we checked into our rooms at Kalenda and I started to sweat.

All that was left now was waiting for the agent to get in touch with us and collect our money. Bryan headed to the hotel bar and I stayed in the room with the briefcase, watching my cell with anxious twitching. I have always hated that part. Sitting, waiting, not knowing what's going on. I like the action. Put me in a firefight and I know what I'm doing. Make me sweat in a hotel room and we've got a problem.

The phone rang, Belgian country code, unknown number. I picked up and listened. "We meet in the restaurant at the docks, Une Table au Sud, 19:30. I will be wearing a white tie." "Alright." Well, there was about three hours to kill so grabbed my cargo and joined Bryan at the hotel bar for a while, clued him into our dinner plans and grabbed a glass of wine. Hotel bar crowds are the same every where, business types, tourists and the occasional local cruising for visitors. Time stood still for a while, chatting up a corporate raider from America about the growth of the Euro. Damn, I should have gotten our cash in Euros. Too late now, I bid farewell to my new friend and headed back to the room to change.

I slid the key into the door and heard the click of a gun one second too late. That's all I remember until the bright sunlight of the Italian morning and some serious fucking pain in my shoulder. Angeline was my nurse and over the next few days I managed to get in touch with Bryan through some contacts in Italy and convince Angeline to help me out. She helped me get out of the hospital without too many uncomfortable "gunshot, found on the beach" questions. Let no one ever underestimate the power of persuasion.

Persuasion, and about three grand in bribes. My pocket money was running low, my shoulder felt like someone had dropped it in lava and I had some double crossing bullshit to wade through. Bryan was in the clear, he had been shot three times in the leg and one to the chest, left for dead by these pricks. The only other person that knew where we were was that Belgian phone number.

A short shopping trip to pick up a new cell phone, call Bryan and give him the new number, find me a boat and we were on our way. Angeline and I were off to Corsica to meet up with him and find out exactly who I needed to punch holes through to get our payday. It was going to be a long summer.

Listen to samples at Amazon.com

Rant: I hate you Indie Genre Tag.

I listen to a lot of music. By a lot of music I mean I border on obsession. I listen to every kind there is, all the time I'm not playing it. Before you can say "Everything? Who does this guy think he is?" I will tell you this. My last few procurements are a collection of ancient Chinese folk songs, some Blur albums (Parklife is great by the way, very 80's in spots) and bunch of old ragtime records I found in a thrift store. So I'm into it, hardcore ya know?

A few years ago my CD collection had grown to an unmanageable size and I decided it was time to rip the whole thing into MP3. It took me about 2 years to get through it all but it was totally worth it. Now I had most of my music in a searchable index and I was pleased. Soon as my collection grew beyond it's original 60GB size it started getting harder and harder to search so I decided that it was time to start tagging all of my music. The only fields open to me were Artist, Album and Genre. I groaned, I wailed, I pulled on my hair and finally sat down and started creating genres for my music.

I hate genre. I hate it with a burning passion, I think it's a terrible way of describing music in any but the broadest of terms. So I stick with some pretty broad terms; Opera is easy to distinguish from Punk Rock, Hip-Hop sounds very different from Mexican Bolero etc. The real bitch of it comes in truly modern music. Where the hell do I put Devotchka? They're a Gypsy/Bolero rock band from Denver for fucks sake. Genre? They want nothing to do with it, just enjoy. What about Beck? Every album sounds like a new street drug I've never tried and any attempt to file it in my collection feels wrong.

Alas a gigantic music collection requires some organizing or I'll find myself back with my CDs, staring at a giant cluster fuck of boxes and buying the same album three times in one year because I don't think I own it. So I can either create a genre tag for every Balkan Beat Box that keeps scribbling outside of genre lines or I can try and group some of this crap together so I can find it. Recently a genre tag that I truly despise is creeping into my digital music.

Indie.

I hate you, Indie genre tag. You are a method for distributing music, not a damn genre. You describe nothing, but so much of what I'm all about these day keeps landing in this pile. Again, Devotchka? Where the hell do you go Devotchka? Beyond creating a specific genre for Ukranian/Mexican Rock I can find little else to place them in. Maybe rock, but it still doesn't fit quite right. I'm not rocking out while I listen to them, I rock out when I hear The Black Keys. Or to make things worse, where am I to file Beirut? Gypsy-folk? AAAARG!

I've tried replacing the Indie tag with a few others and I've managed to extract Indie Pop and Psychedelic into their own categories but honestly it's painful work and not something I'm interested in spending a lot of time laboring over. I want to enjoy my music, not spend a couple hundred hours organizing it. That is the exact reason I went to MP3s so long ago, it's supposedly very convenient. Prove it to me MP3s, be more convenient.

I want music playing software that allows me to write in my own fields and then populate them with data that matters to me. Like what kind of sex goes good with this particular Leonard Cohen collection, or what color fruit reminds me of this Animal Collective track. I want emotional tagging. I want to be able to ascribe a mood to every track and every album in my library so when I'm feeling pissy I can just scroll down through my Ani Difranco records and listen to all the tracks tagged as "Pissy". Where's my Magical iPod that can do all of this? Damn you Indie genre, damn you for being useful and annoying.

Fuck it, someone please just take a picture of me every time I play Gulag Orkestar and tell me where it should be filed.

Thanks for listening to me rant,
Eriq Nelson.

Iron and Wine: Tonight at the National

Iron and Wine is playing at the National on Broad tonight, 'round 8:00. Who wants to go? I'll be there.

1:00 4-17-08 Good lord. That was a fantastic show.

Awesome things tonight!

Come out and celebrate RVA Magazine and Gallery 5's 3rd birthday tonight! The festivities will begin around 7 o'clock. Tonight is First Friday as well, so there's many other wonderful happenings in the area as well.

From RVAmag.com:

WHAT: Gallery5/RVA Mag 3 Year Anniversary Benefit Party!!!
WHEN: 7PM - 2AM
WHERE: Gallery5
DETAILS: First Friday, April 47PM - 2AM $5Gallery5 turns 3 years old April 4th! Come join us as we celebrate three years of hard work, frustration and sleepless nights.On April's First Friday we do battle with our crib-mates RVA Magazine (also turning 3) in a mural competition. Artistic gladiators include your local favorites Jim Callahan, Oura, Adam Juresko, Bizhan Khodabandeh, Ross Trimmer and a secret special guest. Great live music from Fight the Big Bull, Prabir and the Substitutes and cabaret sister act, Vermillion Lies. The high energy antics of G5 Fire Performers will be outside spinning, spitting, twirling, and breathing the hot stuff. Late night brings DJ sets from the Party Liberation Front starring DJ Reinhold and Discotizer on the second floor and local unstoppable sonic sensations, SoulPower downstairs. As if that were not enough, Sailor Jerry Rum, Level Vodka and Richbrau Brewery will relieve you of your inhibitions.Take part in our Silent Auction with entries from Firehouse Theatre Project, TheatreVCU, Henry, Rumors, Ian Graham, Ken Howard, Revolve, Chop Suey, Tagur Shoes, Sticky Rice, Taboo, OPUS and others.Raffle Tickets will be available for purchase. 3 Lucky winners will receive tickets to EVERY Gallery5 and RVA Magazine event for a full year!!
URL: http://www.gallery5arts.org

See you there!

Thanks Randall, I've been through this with my film scores

From xkcd

If you think this is bad, have the theme from "Conan the Barbarian" play during cuddle time.

Tonight

I'll be at The Flying Brick, 506 S, Pine St. watching Pedals on our Pirate Ships play live, at 19:00. You should come on out, free show! Your mother would approve.
3-10-08 Update.
It took me a while to get here and update. I'm lazy, it's how it goes. POOPS (love the acronym) put on an awesome show. There is nothing in the world better than direct song writing, no bullshit and no masks up. Matt Seymour writes songs about his life, no filters. The Flying Brick is a tough venue for me, living rooms aren't well designed for watching bands, but it still did the trick. I caught the first couple songs from Ghost Mice before I had to leave and I'm going to hunt some recordings down. Think old school folk and bluegrass wrapped up in modern aesthetics and songwriting techniques. Ahhh, acoustic goodness.

News: Helping the baby making population, one song at a time

So I've decided to try and conquer the world through the power of sexy. There are many types of music in the world and I've listened to most of them but the one that gets me the most is down tempo electronica and trip hop. Portishead did something permanent to my brain. It might have been the time and place, but I've never found anything to replace my copy of Dummy. Well, Sigur Ros () comes real close and Tidal from Fiona Apple is some damn fine work, but Dummy rules the world of sexy in my book. I spent some time looking at how the album was made and it's a damn brilliant production technique. They recorded themselves on the shittiest analog equipment they could find and then sampled it digitally to produce the album. *snatch* If musicians and producers didn't steal from each other I imagine a lot of great ideas would go to waste. Anyway.
Ian and I have been trying to get a music project together for a few years now and we're finally in the right place to start this thing rolling. We've gotten down a bit of material and how the finished product will sound has started to coalesce in my mind. A coworker who's never heard anything like it asked me to describe what we're looking for. It took me about two weeks to figure it out. Imagine Al Green produced by the RZA and Trent Reznor with A Silver Mt. Zion providing the textures. I don't believe in shooting low. I want to make a damn fine album this time.
I guess it all really started a few years back. I was at a party playing guitar (yes, I am on occasion that guy) and I realized that I in fact do not rock. There are many things the Eriq is capable of. I can groove, I can swing I can even on occasion get the fuck down, but no rocking. It took me many years and a lot of bands and attempts at bands to come to this realization. I got home and I started looking at my most played iTunes list and came up with Emmylou Harris, Mazzy Star and Miles Davis. Not a surprise now but quite shocking at the time. Well you know I grew up in the era of grunge and metal and it took me a long time to find my way out of the suburban radio rock BS that surrounds our culture like a vulture even now. Besides I think it takes a lot to step outside what you know and what's acceptable to your society and at 17 years old, I just didn't have the balls to do it. Ahh the teenage years, we'll leave those alone for now and come back when we have several days to waste. Nevertheless, suburban white kids have a choice of several prepackaged identities to choose from and that's the one I got. Neato. On with the rebellion and the rocking we go. It never quite took and I think at this point in my life I'm ready to let it go. Don't get me wrong if someone is feeling the rock, there's no BS about it (J-Diggy, here's looking at you kid) but when you wear it like a mask there's a serious problem.

So now I'm curling up in a warm sexy Aphex Twin album and I'm not coming out for a while. While I'm here I'm going to craft the sexiest things I know how and see what happens. Maybe one day the Gods of Rock will bless me with the urge to shred riffs and wear black all the time, but for now The Sex shall reign supreme. The Nicotine Persuasion begins.