Issue 42:

The Song Remains The Same, It’s Simply Remixed

1998 is upon us, as she has been since the ball dropped, and the hopeful… wench squirms and shivers with what may appear to be optimism. Or it could be she knows her time is short (Let him who hath understanding reckon the cel phone and pager number of the Beast), and this’ll be her last fuck-frenzy ’til the millennium. Call me cautious (that’s the polite term for heartless, cynical bastard who’s already mashed the mellows and got the weenies skewed on the proverbial rotisserie, awaiting the bonfire hoedown of ’00), just don’t call me with an excuse for why your 200 word review of The Cash-Ins is going to be late, longer than expected (unless I chose to edit out the 5,000 word intro on kitty litter as a probable alterna-fuel source), and written in binary.
Scott Hefflon, Prelude to a Lick

I wanna get some sleep, cuz I spent an entire weekend subjectin’ my soul to mercilessly hype-heavy, music-lite, profit-margin jumpin’, photo-op-yer-picture-here-this-is-my-demo-where-can-I-get-another-beer-but-hold-on-cuz-this-could-be-the-next-best-thing-or-maybe-it’s-playin’-down-the-street festival. Y’know, like Woodstock, but it’s playin’ at twenty different places and most of the bands you’ve never heard of and there’s no acid.
Jon Sarre, Sarre-Chasm: That’s When I Reach For My Wallet: The North-By-Northwest Festival ’97

“To put it… succinctly,” I (said), running my fingers over one her flushed, erect nipples, “hipness is a virus. It originated in France in the early sixties, though it is not clear at what point it crossed over. It could not find a proper cultural host until roughly 1991, when late ’80s cynicism went into commercially viable commodification. The roots of cinematic ethic hadn’t been more vulnerable since the early ’30s and the virus launched a mighty attack with a verve and arrogance that is the hallmark of such organisms.”
Adam Haynes, Everett Stillwell Does 1997

Duiszk wiped the marble cake crumbs off his shoulders and put them in the filing cabinet in the manila folder labeled “CRUMBS, PASTRY: A-M,” then resumed counting to zero. He had been at it all morning and was becoming quite adept at skiing in the process. He farted and smiled at his wit. Fejod threw up on himself out of boredom. Duiszk lit himself on fire to outdo him. Fejod sprinted into the bathroom to get some lettuce to throw at his infinitesimally small-minded compatriot. “More spaetzle! More spaetzle! More spaetzle!” they chanted in a round, then shifted into an oblong for tax purposes. They grew dizzy and collapsed on the flypaper. “Been redecorating again, I see,” Fejod spat at his fellow man-thing.
Scott Hefflon, Jeff Pare, and William Ham, In Search of the Point

Take away the frenetic cross-cutting, the speedball editing, and enough strobe-lit concert sequences to send every Japanese youngster into a prolonged seizure, and you’ve got something exactly as banal and ultimately pointless as any of the roadtrips you took with your folks in the station wagon when you were a sprout. (Granted, your parents probably didn’t wear nearly as much S&M;-inspired leather gear – then again, maybe they did; who can say in this day and age?)
William Ham, Nine Inch Nails

Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, The Wall… what are these albums if not some of the greatest stereo demonstration records ever made? Yep, Pink Floyd has long been the standard-bearer for the misfit high school stoner, whether crouched in abject alienation with headphones epoxied to their malformed skulls or weaving in ‘shroomed-out ecstasy among thousands of their fellow alienees muttering “I can touch the flying pig with my mind, man” or some such thing. If I seem to be dissing the Floyd’s massive fan base needlessly, several of the articles compiled in Da Capo’s fine Floydian compendium demonstrate that I am not alone – the band doesn’t like you, either.
Nik Rainey, Pink Floyd

The shiny stolen BMW. Killer and Heiress. Two strangers chasing death, never having been more alive. Mad Max On The Road. Great tears in the time tense. Rips in the reality fabric. Seconds are years. Moments a lifetime. And, beyond, wet grass, sparrows, sky.
Thomas Christian, My Brother’s Gun

Zines, by their very nature, are monuments to self-indulgence, that shambling, bestial cousin of entitlement and really just a couple of steps above the desire to bitch-slap your overweight, slutty cousin/girlfriend on Jerry Springer: it’s all about broadcasting your experiences and opinions and expecting a lot of people to plunk down their coin for the privilege of soaking in it.
William Ham, Retro Hell

If you don’t have the talent or creativity to write a somewhat interesting song, don’t cry to me when my boring-ass review might as well say, “they’re not very good.” Here’s an idea: Either get good, or get off the fuckin’ stage! Who asked you to be there in the first place? You did. Your innermost self wanted to express itself, and, nothing personal bub, but I think your innermost self oughtta shut the fuck up.
Scott Hefflon, Side Order of Flies

“…So. Make it easy on me. Who are your influences? I mean, what would you guys call your music? Are you like Iggy Pop?”
Richard places a hand on his own naked breast, as an apologia: “Iggy Pop is a worn-out old boogiedaddy.”
“Oh, that’s good,” the scribbler assents. “May I quote you on that?”
“Certainly,” sez our front-man. “All our words are for rent.”
Todd Brendan Fahey, Going Down the Road Feeling Bad