These kids have more *distilled* Americana & Folk in their little fingers, in the subtle nuance and meta-fucking-layering hiding behind faux-softiness and 'easy-listening' in any of their songs than THOSE fuckers (yeah, say it again, out loud, you know you want to: THOSE fuckinnng Ffuhckerrs) who think that a couple of necessary beards , a dashing of plaid, perhaps a banjo, and oh, christ, jesus: one lone miserable & distraught cunty-faced little girl with a tambourine & oh, god, if we're feeling uppity, perhaps a stand-up drummer, with flourishes yeah...
and, yes, children, this all adds up to Folk. You've got it. Well fucking done. You're godamn Americana. No. Wait. But then you get to play with one of the members of The Band - if you, reader, care you know which one, if you're alive and into music you know which fucken song - yeah, you're - and I mean THEM - folk. Go kill yourselves.
Wait. Go write a note saying how sorry you are, then do it. Jump off something high... fall screaming... and then holy shit, Superman swoops you up... and you smile, saved... and then he let's go: to drop you from higher. You cunt, he whispers, as you fall from his angelic grasp, speechless. And, yeah, I know I ripped off Louis' joke. Eat a dick.
Or, rather, listen to this, below these here sentences, when I finally stop.
Then go kill yourself, because, if you're a musician, you'll probably never make it to your Wilco Phase, not even close. You'll wake up, have a kid, your kid, rubbing shit in your mouth; and you'll be sad, right deep in your fucken eyes, where no-one looks, not one of your shitty friends, because they're all too cunty to care enough. And you'll see whatever passes for the next hodge-podged, stolen, filtered through kidneys and pissed out beautiful new progression of genre-blends - or purification of one ( traitorously debased, in this case), holy, stalwart music truth - and you'll throw your kid at the wall, kick your dog in the face, fuck your wife in the ass, shoot a fucken cripple and realise this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYCz06bS380
Which James FUCKING Murphy knew, before he killed with that Starship Troopers reference, only, cunt,
YOU DIDN'T.
And then you'll sell your house. And buy all the same kinda shit that lives in my beautiful new soulzie, John Shepherd's, band room - which I just stood up, walked over to and looked into, beatifically, and yeah, with a cuntily smug smile right there on my face and you know what?
YOU'LL TRY AGAIN.
This is ONCE IN A LIFETIME, Kids. Then, Death, who becomes a close friend, in the end - cause you got so close to him All The Fucking Time by Living Hard - will one day grab you away to nothingness. And then all the cunts left behind will say: "That cunt. That cunty fuckface was awesome. And you'll get the honour of having 'FUCKING' as a middle name.
So WATCH THAT SHIT BELOW, DOWN THERE, NOW. And then watch it AGAIN. AND AGAIN. Until you realise why I've said all I've said. Watch it until you realise, perhaps, something I may have missed, some little detail I might have skipped which I then didn't say AND THEN FUCKING MAIL ME ABOUT IT. Because I WANT TO FUCKING KNOW. The mail addy is chadliampolley@gmail.com
Fucken Do It. For fucken reals. Anytime. Cause I want to punch your face about the things I believe that hurt and kill me EVERY DAY. And if you do, too, I need you in my life.
*
[And, yeah, I know I'm wasting tons of my breath, hell, it was bound to happen, these cunts will always be there. They will always exist. They're necessary. Shut the fuck up. And, yeah, I guess I meant both meanings, smartass. And if you feel sad after watching BELOW kill you with sheer supremity, just listen to Coming On Strong by Hot Chip, because they heal all wounds. All. I swear. It's like angel's piss bathing your wounds. And then go out and fuck yourself.]