From Right Now

DEAR JOS(EF)F:

ENCLOSED IS A STUPID FUCKING PIECE OF ART THAT I’M SENDING TO YOU BECAUSE YOU OF ALL PEOPLE WILL PROBABLY THINK IT LESS STUPID THAN IT REALLY IS. AS I’VE COME TO NOTICE YOU HAVE A VERY ACCEPTING AND FORGIVING NATURE IN YOUR AESTHETIC STANDARDS. PLEASE FORGIVE THE BULLSHIT AS THE BULLSHIT IN THIS CASE IS A COMPLIMENT.

ANYWAY, CARLO ROSSI SEZ HEY. I MEAN (SORRY, IN PHILA-FUCKIN’-DELPHIA) ‘HOLLA’.

THE OTHER DAY I WAS DRIVING THROUGH KENSINGTON, ONE OF THE MOST POVERTY-STRICKEN, CRIME-STRICKEN, MURAL-STRICKEN, ABANDONED-LOT-WASTELAND-STRICKEN NEIGHBORHOODS IN PHILLY AND THERE WAS ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE ABANDONED LOTS AND THERE WAS SOULJA BOY PLAYING TO NO ONE. THE PLACE IS LIKE PAWTUCKET, BUT LITERALLY FALLING APART ON ALL ENDS. THERE ARE SOME CONVERTED AREAS FOR FUCKING ARTISTS, THOUGH, JUST LIKE EVERYWHERE IN THIS FUCKED UP COUNTRY.

I’M REALLY NOT THAT PISSED, IT’S JUST THE PAISANO. ANOTHER SPIRIT IN ME. ET
AL. ET CET.

WENT TO BALTIMORE, B-MORE CITY TODAY. DIDN’T SEE DAN DEACON OR ANYONE ELSE BUT I DID SEE A FLYER ADVERTISING BLACK PUS SHOW DOWN THERE. REMEMBER THEM? THE SHOW WILL PROBABLY BE OVER BY THE TIME YOU GET THIS. BLACK PUS WILL PROLLY STILL BE AROUND THOUGH. THEY’RE WAY TOO UNDERGROUND FOR ME THOUGH. CHIPPENDALE CAN GO SUCK A WHALE COCK. I’LL GIVE HIM 80 DAYS. A DAY AN INCH. 80 INCHES, HUH? ARBITRARY. TRYING’ TO MAKE UP FOR SOMETHING.

I’VE HAD TO MAKE REVIEWS FOR BANDS FOR THE MUSIC MAG. I’M ENCLOSING MY PERSONAL FAVORITE TO THIS PACKAGE. IT’S PRETTY RUDE AND FUCKING DRAMATIC. TALK ABOUT HATERZ.

HOW’S RWU DOING? RI IN THE OCEAN YET? I MISS YOU BUT WILL BE COMING UP ON THE 29TH OF APRIL SO YOU BETTER START MISSING ME SO WE CAN SIT AROUND AND WATCH SOME AVANT GARDE MOVIES AND HAVE A CIGARETTE OR TWO AND SOME SHOTS AS YOU ALWAYS PROVIDE BUT I’LL BRING THE BOOZE THIS UPCOMING NEXT TIME.

GREG

***

The referenced review:

Dead Head Mazy
Mercury Said 65

LISTENABLE

The entirety of Mercury Said 65 is set into permanence with the album’s first track. Acoustic guitars have been pre-plugged into wall sockets, and they play with each other in a pre-packaged and sickeningly cute way. There is an obvious contrast between the dance of the rhythm and the lead and the overtly masculine content coating over each tune. Though each burst of instrumental skill on the album shows signs of a production success, Dead Head Mazy of Minneapolis allows far too many nods toward sly-grinning fun throughout the album for it to be considered a serious project. As each song mixes into the next, leaving its predecessor in the dust, the laid-back demeanor reaches the point where it becomes insulting to the band’s obvious forerunning inspirations—phenomenally creative groups like Dispatch and Blues Traveler. While the music is tolerable, coherent, and aesthetically manageable, the rare glimmers of ingenuity and innovation Dead Head Mazy bring to the surface are unfortunately and too often overshadowed by slathers of tired chord progressions, song structuring, and exhausted lyrics.

Gregory Bem