Staggering, plodding, delicate, discreet, ass-kicking. I like bands named after assassinated homosexual politicians that sound like Brian Eno meets Melvins.
People piss me off. I think there’re too many of them. I’d like to pop a few, but I won’t. I don’t know why I won’t. Probably ’cause I ain’t got the nerve.
In-your-face aggressive. He plays the guitar fast and furious. If he were electric, he’d be lethal. He makes me wonder how many strings he goes through.
The press was calling him “the new Lennon” and all that. I told him, “You got it all wrong, Kurty-boy, someone has to shoot YOU.” We had a giggle over that one.
Solid, melodic hardcore, like a sped up Marginal Man. They gain points by flogging a seemingly dead horse until it hobbles onto all fours and starts galloping.
Monk ran home with his new punk rock CD. He ripped the cellophane off with his teeth. He threw it in and immediately began jumping around the room like a fool.