People Just Aren’t Willing to Bleed For Music Anymore…

Lucas Abela aka Justice Yeldham. Most probably wouldn’t consider it music. It’s better than music. I once heard someone call him an “art school dropout.” You know who else was a dropout? Steve Jobs. You know who Steve Jobs was? The person who is partially responsible for the digitization of your whole worthless reality. Justice Yeldham plays a piece of glass through a contact mic through FX pedals. He’s kinda like an oboist that’s not a total fucking bore. They don’t make spit catchers for blood and shards of window.


Disreantiyouthhellchristbastardassmanx. An Escondido thrashpunk band, whose music was, quite frankly, terrible. Not even a good terrible. They made Anal Cunt sound like Aaron Copeland. You know who Aaron Copeland was? He’s the guy who’s partially responsible for the soundtrack to your whole worthless digitized reality. A friend told me that the vocalist once cut himself so badly during a performance that some of his innards were starting to come out. Good thing I’m a vegetarian!

The Mean Reds were from Arizona. They were one of those dancy punk bands with a synth. The first time I saw them play, the singer climbed up a rope that was dangling in the middle of the room about eight to ten feet high–and let go. He fell flat on his back. He climbed up on the guitar amp and exposed his nutsack. My friend proceeded to get naked and fell through the roof of the makeshift room of this guy’s art loft in San Pedro. He was completely sober, too. The second time I saw them play, which was their last show, the vocalist urinated in a bottle and their groupie friend took the bottle of piss and spit it back onto him all over his body, which had several lacerations on his abdominal section. He was wearing a skirt which kept drooping down exposing his penis. He then ignored every line of his usual lyrics and replaced them all with the simple phrase, “Fuck you!” We heard “Fuck you!” repeatedly for a whole thirty minutes or however long it was that they played that night.

Not so fucking punk now, are we?

I know, we’re all socially conscious, refined and politically correct. The revolution is hip right now, everyone was a thug ten years ago and now everyone’s got a newfound appreciation for art after they saw videos of Kanye West. One time when I was young, my mother held out her hands and said something like, “See, my hands are rough from working and washing dishes. Your brother’s hands are smooth because he’s never worked a day in his life.” It’s great that all you kids are intelligent, well-spoken, and articulate. But you’re boring as all hell. No one cares that you’re the right balance of urban and rustic, that you have the romantic, edgy-yet-nonchalant fashion formula down to a science. Oo, folk music, how “alternative.” You look like John Mayer. So fucking what? All this whittling of artistic sensibility is a huge damper. We’ve already got a culture of the lowest common denominator. It’s called being an American. Do you really want to live a life of grocery store music, freeway billboards and infomercials? No? Then make something offensive. Put the lotion away for just a second. Turn off the air conditioner. Lose some fakeass friends over it. Get banned from places that are only exploiting the talent for profit. Smash Jason Mraz’s guitar for him. Put the “sic” back in music.