So,
hypothetically speaking, if you were to tell me that the picture on the front
of the above J-Card was, in fact, aside from the transplanted face, lifted from
an old baseball card that fetches a pretty penny nowadays, known in many
circles as the ‘Bill Ripken- Rick Face’ card, the words ‘RICK’ and ‘FUCK’
looking a helluva lot alike when sharpee’d on the bottom of a baseball bat, I’d
probably tell you that I may or may not have it somewhere in my parents’ attic
just outside of Dayton, Ohio.
Also,
if you were to tell me about how quite a high percentage of blackmetal bands actually
take pride in their recordings sounding like shit, and that one renowned drummer
went on record as to explicitly request of his sound engineer that their (the
blackmetal band’s) album should sound like they were being recorded in a
trashcan, well, I’d ask you if that drummer’s Christian name was, in fact,
Oscar D. Grouch.
Moreover,
if you were to tell me, in earnest, that Jason Millard, notably a pretty all
around bad-ass, jack-of-all-trades musician from Minneapolis, Minnesota was somehow
inspired to record a concept album, whereby all recorded sounds were painstakingly
labored over to simulate a fight-to-the-death sequence (in song form, spanning
a half hour plus) between the remaining Sun City Girls gents and all them rascally
members ever involved with Harvey Milk (the band, silly)- and that this fight
would not be hand-to-hand, but rather sonically, with rhythmic and lead
acoustic guitars traded off randomly between these axe-men- and that these
fight-sounds would only be recorded (or, really, simulated to be recorded) through
chintzy, piezo pick-ups that were, in turn, shoddily soldered onto the four
walls and rusted underbelly of an industrial sized dumpster, acting as
container/fighting ring for these aforementioned participants, this dumpster,
itself, situated in an abandoned, spacious, concrete bunker that has, over the
past twelve seasons or so received its own fair share of flooding, rusting, and
subsequent mildewing/dead-vermin-soup-gone-dehydrated-relief-sculptures- and that
this, get this, that beside this industrial, hypothetical dumpster, situated in
this abandoned bunker, there has also perished an ancient reel-to-reel
recording mechanism, stitched together by time’s deposition of excrement and
detritus, this recording mechanism’s sound output being a hard-won watermark of
ingenious novelty, whose ‘property of…’ sticker has scrawled into the blank
cream/mold-colored field, in all lower case English print, but with an Aramaic
lilt to the descenders, “MOSES”, this built-to-electrocute mechanism was
responsible for recording aforementioned sound-event’s faulty EQ fidelity,
warble, decibel drop-out, and all around general feeling of “Boy, it’d be
impossible for someone in their bedroom to accidentally consistently record so
many tracks with such dedication to sounding like baby Jebus hisself were just
shitting on the microphone like half the time, well, I’d probably humour you
and ask for a hand-written lyric sheet so that I could play this brilliant
concept album at peak volume on my shitty stereo speakers and sing along in my
most proud falsetto, to display that I, finally, have something more obvious
than the Nick Drake discography to play when less heavy handed clues have
fallen short in inspiring my dallying guests that, as dawn has far since
vanished, it is, indeed, time for them to leave.
-
- Jacob An Kittenplan
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