This is no grounds for complaint, but my jaded, apathetic bitterness towards music has undergone a substantial decrease. I had become one of those guys. I despised more than I loved. The pathetic asshole that I made fun of at age 23 - “I’ll never turn into that” - took over. Now, by way of a lifestyle change (I’m trying and generally succeeding at living by a strict “No Bullshit” policy…..some people that haven’t heard my voice or seen my face in a while might be confused by its positive outcome on this end) and several weeks of strong productivity have somehow resulted in a return to music fandom, exploration, and a good refresher course.

     Soulseek has helped greatly, and you’ll read no words of guilt here. The past seven years have been punctuated with sporadic phases of downloading/file-sharing fury, but not since the glory days of Napster have I so fully embraced these evil acts. I refuse to pay money for joyful curiosity. My curiosity about, or desire for, the 3rd In Flames album, the Tank box set, the Paris 1942 album I was forced to throw on eBay during tough times, the Green River albums that I never wanted to buy used, the marginal SST and Homestead bands that were not even worth a buck a pop in the cutout bin (trust me, these people are not seeing royalties anyway), the third Wishbone Ash record…will not set me back a cent. Obviously, these items fall outside of the promotional fare that (so often) fouls my PO Box and inbox, and amazingly, even more of that stuff is getting played and absorbed. Remember, I love music again. Plus, plenty of money will be spent over the next year researching a particular long-term project I’ve climbed into bed with…extra scratch cannot be thrown around. I still become incensed shortly after opening a magazine (I’m the last person on earth that still consumes at least eight different music magazines with any regularity) or five lines into a Pitchfork review. The music industry has indeed lost its mind, and creative dilettantism/bankruptcy has reached a new and troublesome level, but for the first time in several years, there’s a little optimism balancing things out.

     I’ll leave you with this line from a Wooden Shjips review that ran in Wire Magazine (entering the music writing game, I used to trip over myself trying to copy this scribe’s once vibrant style, and today he will remain unnamed on FailedPilot.com):

“Tight-wound repeato psych guitar raunch with spoony (maybe even imaginary) percussion, surprisingly Rev-like keys, and vocals buried under burning driftwood.”

Going forward, if I write anything similar to this, you, reader, are allowed to throw me in a ditch with the rest of the sick and dying livestock.