Silverchair

I never thought I’d have my own column in a respected national music magazine, much less Lollipop, but my older brother told me the response from my first review (the same one that got me my first C+ in Creative Writing) was galvanized or something. I looked up the word in the dictionary and it said “to cover with zinc to protect from moisture.” I don’t know why they’d do that, but I’m happy to see it’s not getting wet. Anyway, my brother came into my room a couple weeks ago, dropped a stack of CDs on my bed, and said “Here. This should keep you busy. Stop calling my house.” I must say, I’m surprised at how easy this rock critic thing is – except for the fact that I had to pay attention to the CDs so I could review them, it’s been simple as pie. I’m not sure what kind of pie. Not pecan, that’s for sure. They hurt my teeth.

These guys are so far beyond me it’s amazing and things. I mean, it’s like they’re poets, you know, except they’ve got guitars. “No more maybes/ Babies got rabies” – I mean, like, wow. How they figured out how to rhyme those words is real cool, especially since my neighbor’s little brother got bit by a dog once and that’s just what happened. My neighbor’s kinda fat, too, so that ties in to that great “Hey, Fat Boy” song they used to do. It’s like they know me or something. I don’t know how they do it. I think I’ll probably understand when I get to be their age. But you know, when I’m their age they’ll be older than I am and I’ll be trying to catch up to that and I never will and stuff and it’ll be like holding a carrot out of reach of a rabbit and stuff which brings me back to that whole Easter pageant thing. Which is what makes Silverchair so great. I guess.