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LITERATURE

 » Full Dark, No Stars - Stephen King's new novella questions mankind's ability to trust others.
[02.21.2011 by Bridget Doyle]

MUSIC

 » The Top 30 Albums of 2010 - Fashionably, fabulously late, our favorite music (and believe me, there was a LOT) of 2010, the year that some have called the best year for music ever. And only some of those fools work here. Plenty of usual suspects, lots of ties and a few surprises that I won't spoil, including our unexpected #1.
[12.24.2010 by The LAS Staff]

MUSIC

 » Live: Surfer Blood/The Drums at Lincoln Hall, Chicago, IL - Remember when Weezer used to put together records that you could sing along to and rock out to? That's what Surfer Blood's show was like!
[11.04.2010 by Cory Tendering]

Music Reviews

Screaming Females - Castle Talk
»Screaming Females
Castle Talk
Don Giovanni
Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross - The Social Network [Original Soundtrack]
»Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross
The Social Network [Original Soundtrack]
The Null Corporation
Deerhunter - Halcyon Digest
»Deerhunter
Halcyon Digest
4AD
No Age - Everything in Between
»No Age
Everything in Between
Sub Pop
Robyn - Body Talk Pt. 1/ Body Talk Pt. 2
»Robyn
Body Talk Pt. 1/ Body Talk Pt. 2
Konichiwa
The Walkmen - Lisbon
»The Walkmen
Lisbon
Fat Possum
LOSTATSEA.NET > FEATURES >

May 21, 2002
FIFTEENTH EDITION: MY ROCK BAND WILL KICK YOUR ASS

My rock band practices in an asbestos-lined garage. We don't wear dust masks. The flaking walls are held together by moldy caulk and papered with yellowing Hustler centerfolds.

We stand in stagnant puddles of ringworm-infested mudwater. The wires of our extension cords are frayed and exposed. We don't wear rubber boots. Our heads are shaved, smoldering and surgery-scarred.

We chain-smoke non-filtered Pall Malls and put 'em out on our tongues. We mainline Old Style and piss on a pile of dismembered teddy bears in the corner.

We built our stage out of melted down station wagons and aluminum siding. We pounded it into the shape of a pentagram with mallets and the foreheads of Catholic school students.

We channel the Holy Spirit of Cobain through used syringes, painted black with eyeliner, that we plug into our amps. Amps that go to 666.

We will send you crashing through stained glass one second, and leave you weeping for mommy the next. We are mirthless and merciless. We do not allow laughter or crying. Chuckles and tears are for weaklings, whom we do not abide and have blood-oathed to destroy.

We have six songs, all of which redefine redefining.

Our verses are your cherished thrift-store sweater, our choruses slime it with pus, and by the time you've washed it, our double-time break has induced a brain aneurysm, which makes you forget that sweaters need to be hung dry, so you put it in the dryer, and when you take it out our flaming guitar solo commands you to douse that shrunken-to-kiddie-size sweater with gasoline and light it with a Zippo. You will dance around the wool sacrifice, half-naked and howling our lyrics backwards, as we repeat the first verse and then the chorus (twice).

Our riffs are shards of lead, whittled into arrowheads and poisoned by ancient demon-chiefs summoned by our ritual incantations of sacred texts.

Our bass lines are boa constrictors that wrap around your neck and eyes and still have the length to slither under your pants, bite your genitalia, and suck out your essence.

Our beat is the recoil of black market shotguns. Our cracked cymbals are trebling symbols of revolution, devolution, and anarchy.

We screw more girls than you will ever pass on the street in your lifetime. We don't wear condoms and we don't care if they get off.

We smoke more pot, snort more coke, shoot more smack, and swallow more acid than Spacebunny, The Otters, KIOSK, and Fleetwood Mac ever did -- combined -- to the 6th power. Plus we rock a gazillion times harder than those pussies.

We are the next big thing and the last big thing -- the thing that will make all other things thingless. We are post-everything. We are anti-matter, and for that matter, anti-government, anti-corporate, anti-suburbia, and anti-you.

We are the Four Monster Trucks Of The Apocalypse, riding high over hills and short buses. Roiled and rollicking, rolling towards your piss-ant town.

We will reduce your buildings to shredded blueprints, your roads to dust's dust, your rivers and streams and fey-ass quays to primordial ooze.

We will leave your husbands catatonic and splayed on the floor, steal their watches and pinkie rings, rifle their pockets for cash, and kick 'em in the head for kicks.

We will leave your wives and daughters pregnant, bowlegged, and lovesick.

Like all malevolent forces of Nature, we are indefatigable, undefeatable, and unnamed.

--
Peter Vaeth
In addition to his contributions to LAS, Peter Vaeth contributed words to Pindeldyboz, McSweeney's, Word Riot and I Read a Short Story Today.

See other articles by Peter Vaeth.

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