Don't shoot me, I'm just the guitar player

Dressed To Kill

Sun, 05 May 2013 10:00:05 +0100

All the adventure in the world is out there, and in some way or other at this moment you’re on part of the journey that makes up that adventure, even if sitting at some seemingly eternal stop light or godforsaken bus stop waiting to get moving again.

People may laugh at you, call you a tourist or not understand when you try to find joy in or document even the smallest moments, sights and sounds along the way. When you’ve done this a little while, this serial itinerancy you realise sometimes reflecting back on the collection of seemingly nothings is all you truly get to keep, and half the time it is impossible to indelibly etch the pictures and memories you’d like to into your mind forever. So finding other ways to keep them isn’t such a waste of time. And time itself is the very thing, the commodity at large. We only have so much, and once you realise it, it becomes slippery through even the tightest of grips. Sometimes I have pangs for materialist things; I watch a cooking show. It’s a shock as I realise I once owned a greenhouse, that in fact I built it myself, put in each pane of glass, that it stood in the garden of a house I owned. That I have had and lost an inordinate amount of such ridiculousness, usually to stupidity and carelessness. Now in a position seemingly impossible to rebuild myself, I seem driven perhaps to see how low I can go. I guess the work is ok, it’s doing good things for other people, but very little for me. Each month, the clothes get a little more threadbare, realising this as I try to put on something half respectable to meet visiting family. A hole in this, an iron mark on that, broken zipper on one of the few remaining jeans that fit. That’s what you get for only buying H&M t-shirts. It’ll have to do.

And still, when I pause would I trade things for time, for life? No. And that is my main irritant, the value, quantity and quality of the time that remains, rather than anything else. That time should be spend wisely on adventure, on experiences more valuable than things so there is no time to wait for the light to change at the crossing, nor for people to catch up or be appropriately dressed. You either choose life, or don’t, run or crawl, live, or wait around to die. The style of travel remains to be fine tuned for comfort, I know, but at least I’m still on the road to somewhere even if not dressed to kill.

Golden Years

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 08:51:26 +0100

Many people like to spend their golden years in the sun, and so they do. Lately, I watch the elderly men sitting on the bench from my window. These are not street people, they are just normal residents of the nearby apartment buildings with plenty of time on their hands and not enough to fill the ever increasing hours of consciousness.

Even I am noticing that. I thought you were supposed to get old and tired. It doesn’t seem that way. All drink heavily, and I can fully imagine how easily it happens; deceased spouses, bad luck, the demons they carry but then I question myself. Perhaps this was just how life turned out, perhaps it is boredom, perhaps there is not even a sad twist to the tale after all. I’d like to think that, but know better. The man living above is mentally ill; dog and beer man is terribly alone, and certainly a serious alcoholic being the earliest to start. I watch him return from the shop usually at 8:30 am or so, six beers in a plastic bag, dog at his heel. He struggles to count his change sometimes at the counter as I buy bread, so perhaps he starts even earlier, or never stops. They smoke, they drink, they think. At least the nice weather has given them something now they are free from incarceration. Dog man has a best friend that visibly adores him, so that’s something. The schizophrenic has his other half, but they don’t have a good relationship. When I say his other half, I mean of himself, the person at the receiving end of his wrath, all the late night vicious sounding swearing and shouting. Far from the Floridian vision some have, I wonder if it all comes down to this for these souls, waiting to die, helping the process along, numbing the pain and snatching those moments in the sun.

The Almost Legendary Hog.

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 16:54:38 +0000

Some people are thrust into greatness. Some people have greatness thrust upon them. But most people are destined to have greatness thrust into them - by The Almost Legendary Hog - according to themselves, of course.

“By the light of the moon, I see your body, body, body” the “bodies” a simulated echo coming from Zane Masters mouth, a Toyota Camry dashboard the perfect compositional tool for “bad beats” via the idle hands of Bart Savage. The endless, pointless driving in the teenage midwest was the backdrop and how it all began. You could only wait so long for the king biscuit flower hour, or Dr Ruth to come along and make the radio interesting while going nowhere fast, sitting in a parking lot. There had already been a gold standard set as the young Lord Buckmond C Whoremaster had already written the immortal “Penis And Tits” in 9th grade home economics while simultaneously baking a cake such was his demented talent.

Eventually, the “bad jams” were released into the wild, ensnaring even the music theory teacher with an early draft of “Bitches In Black”, his curiosity by this time piqued by the rumblings of his students. “I have been hearing of this band The Almost Legendary Hog, can we have a listen?” Well, full points to him for even caring.

It wasn’t the best production. The “drums” were achieved mainly by hitting a bucket in a bathtub with some spoons, but that was besides the point; the guitars were loud enough - The Almost Legendary Hog were never going to be about high falutin’ production values. Well, apart from live in which case military precision and whatever they measure explosive force in were all that mattered.

There should be an explosion every six seconds so loud, nobody could hear anything else. That was one of the early, wise decisions regarding how things would work. It would cover up any unpleasantry that may occur when The Almost Legendary Hog was performing, seeing how actually playing could be tricky given that The Almost Legendary Hog did not DO standing still. Standing still was boring.

The only time The Almost Legendary Hog stood still was in the makeup trailer pre-show when their crotch makeup was being applied. Unlike the glam rock bands who favoured girly face paint, The Almost Legendary Hog only wore crotch makeup, accentuating what *really* mattered to the baying fans.

Ah, the fans. Despite the fact, The Almost Legendary Hog would in fact unwittingly develop a fan base completely by accident, both in school and in the deep South via bootlegs of bootlegs of bootlegs, no doubt the music buried with nothing but hiss, the album itself being made with two cassette machines to begin with, dubbing between the two. It was always about the fans. Mainly depraved pubescents and virgins (much like themselves) the most dangerous of all minds.

Lord Buckmond C Whoremaster of Hog, Zane Masters of Hog and Bart Savage of Hog as well as having the best names ever came up with many innovations for trailblazing douchebag rock and roll bands, some of which have since been adopted by the international banking community. One of these innovations was “Hog Avoidance Insurance”, requiring cities to pay bi-anually so Hog did not come to play at their local arena, or more accurately - on TOP of their local arena as let’s face it, arenas were too small, and The Almost Legendary Hog pioneered the concept of circles to replace the outmoded “seat”. The parking lot would simply be painted with thousands of numbered circles for it’s adoring fans, and The Almost Legendary Hog would play on the roof. Why not squares, surely a better, more ergonomic solution? The Almost Legendary Hog thought only of the kids, and circles provided breathing space. That’s how much they cared. If you were the kind of prick that was friends with the promotor and got really good circles, you’d get screwed as the closer you were, the worse the view. It was only logical that the true dirtbags, the true fans would get the best circles.

Fate however is never kind. Of course, The Almost Legendary Hog fulfilled it’s destiny and BECAME legendary - which meant by default it could no longer exist. In the pre-internet age things appropriately went away, unlike in this pervasive untidiness we have today. But rest assured, somewhere, in a box in an attic lies a possibly unplayable cassette tape containing all the answers to any unanswered questions you may have.

otto

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 20:10:31 +0000

It was truly sad to read that the one man legend that was Otto passed away earlier this month. If anyone has ever been part of the adoptive Rockfield family for any period in time, then you too will be unable to pause without sending love into the ether to him upon learning this.

From being able to fix the cranky heating in the quadrangle apartments much to Kingsley’s chagrin as after all heat IS for wimps, to understanding any, literally ANY piece of audio equipment you brought to his lair, he was a brilliant, kind, talented man to whom music owes a serious debt; he made it all keep working, and I think we all know at times that was no mean feat. If something broke, by morning it would be magically fixed, usually with some cryptic comment next to it in the book.

As rock ‘n rollers are not early risers, I used to go hide over there to his workshop quite often, loiter and look at the piles of broken electronics. He’d talk to me about things I didn’t understand, sometimes the stuff of legends as he’d show me something ancient that so and so did this with, often totally over my head, but I’d try. I recently watched Sound City and thought about Otto as Dave Grohl talked to Rupert Neve. Try that, but with a German who probably knows even more. The main thing is - he was just nice to be around. It was best to get Otto time in before Kingsley would catch you and make you hitch a plough to a tractor or something.

Farewell, Otto, a lovely man.

peaches: one of the most kick-ass female artists around in my...

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 15:19:44 +0000

peaches: one of the most kick-ass female artists around in my opinion. this is how i’d make your taylor swifts.

time to get some prince back in your life. new single.

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 15:20:00 +0000

time to get some prince back in your life. new single.

dream job

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 11:29:00 +0000

Back on the road again, and as ever mixed emotions. I really am in love, and I really want a home, and to be in that home with the person I love. But right now as the road gets ever snowier as we head into Transylvania, I am trying to be thankful.

While this is one of the ultimate cliches, I really am doing my dream job. I got what I wished for, though what we get isn’t exactly what we imagined. We are maybe three metres from the back of a truck, the back end of which sways like a temptress tempting us to die; I guess we have to be this close if we are going to overtake at some point. I hate this. The last stretch is winding as we climb through some hills, or perhaps small mountains, the footprints of the Carpathians and some small part of me gets worried. I am soothed by the Christmas lights popping up here and there. Nothing bad could happen. It’s Christmas. I picture many happy homes, and want one myself. So back to that. I am lucky as can be to know for the coming weeks i’ll be finishing a record which will be important to me, to others, and complete another page in the saga. It could be so much worse, I could be behind a desk. I could have another life. That was the true terror. And so we go on: petrol station sandwiches, aching knees, blind bend after blind bend, and one thing on my mind, my home with a certain someone.

neighbours

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 11:15:00 +0000

He’s doing it again, as he will all night long. He is a creature of habit, listening, or not listening more likely - slumped unconscious to whatever mystery show he listens to on channel x, beaming back through space and time.

Usually a monotone, tonight pitches rising and falling indicating a conversation about what I shall never know. Tonight even music - a winding, disconnected series of notes, some atonal adventures creeping through the wall, again seemingly disconnected from now, from another time. Usually it is easy to imagine speeches, monologues, dictatorial dictation the sense of which is obscured by the floor, ceiling and language, not there would necessarily be any sense. I wonder sometimes if I am hearing some strange truth, not just filtered chaos. It doesn’t go anywhere. It continues until dawn. I hear him piss, I hear him flush. I am not sure he washes his hands. He is human, after all, and dawn is ushered in by jet planes landing at five thirty as they are most places, when he will rise, shuffle the furniture and turn off the broadcast. It’s amazing what we learn about each other, even when we aren’t trying

DEATH GRIPS short movie/thing - ”come up and get...

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 16:14:00 +0000

DEATH GRIPS short movie/thing - ”come up and get me”

This band is some next level shit. Book me a room at the Chateau Marmont, no - make that a VILLA, channel John Belushi and bring the weirdness.

The track starts at about 8:50.

the silver surfers

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 16:02:52 +0000

Recently I noticed something very strange. Silver people on the metro. Not old, or perhaps you would say distinguished, silver haired, or anything quite so normal, no; people who actually *look* silver.

As in glowing, shiny, “excuse me - are you coming back from your day job as a standing-still-silver-statue guy?” - SILVER. I pointed it out to Natasha, who at first just seemed to not even acknowledge it, making me question what I saw. I stared a little more, deciding that the man must be one of those street performers, eventually watching him leave the carriage, carrying his bag, dressed in black, shimmering. The doors closed. And then…I noticed the others. More silver people. It seems if you stand down one end of a M3 metro carriage, under a broken light in the right place things get weird and otherworldly below the streets of Budapest…

Immigrant Punk.

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 08:45:00 +0000

We went to an exhibition of photographs and film and on the wall was a text by Gábor Klaniczay, professor of Medieval Studies at Central European University and Loránd Eötvös University in Budapest.

That’s Budapest, Hungary where he is known as Klaniczay Gábor, of course, not the other, in - Googles it - Missouri. I know these things are easily confused from watching movies so it’s best to be clear. This had long been one of my questions regarding Romania, post-communism, why a movement like Punk didn’t sweep the nation’s youth. I met great creative minds, yet met very little spirit of the dangerous kind. I did manage to have a reasonable conversation with Tudor Chirila on this topic as we lurched towards a show in a driven car like true imperialist scum, but it diverted towards sexuality, repression and the like. His point of view was that there were other things to worry about. It’s true, I have my priorities, too. The truth is a combination of things, Romania’s regime was very effective, and even now it takes a certain amount of something special to just do, and not fear consequence. I was genuinely excited to hear the garage rock punk sounds coming from the lonely speaker at a whisper volume on the ground floor of the building. It seems these uptight, fucked by history sons of bitches got it, at least. They opened a border with Austria at the end, how dare they. That’s how it crept in, and how distance matters. Your geography matters. The Romanian regime was busy killing people gulag style building a Panama canal of sorts, safe with the support of Russia, so I don’t blame anyone for keeping their heads down. While I don’t believe Ceausescu was killed by anyone other than terrified politicos eager to save themselves, it was a different transition. I don’t know. I’m an immigrant punk in search of punk. What could I know?

Jonesing

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 08:38:00 +0000

Now, I could be bummed out by the snow as it makes life difficult in the city but then again…I just remembered how much I love snow sport. Actually I remembered last month as I sat with Natasha and Eurosport popped up its random head and cross country skiing was plastered on the usually unwelcome restaurant plasma tv. Don’t mention the biathlon, that’s skis and guns, because that’s obviously a good idea and an ideal combination.

Maybe it should be encouraged as a growth sport in America to keep the crazies out of the shopping malls and schools. Spandex was big in the 80’s so it’s not impossible to imagine. Even, yes, even the luge, that most perverse of sports, and even the unfathomable ’curling’ - literally sweeping on ice - can set me off, shaking and drooling with want. I have most, if not all of my favourite memories with my snowboarding posse. It’s fair to say we were addicted. I went with Tom in mid-December one year, and remember drinking Baileys in front of a fire, and actually cheerfully enjoying The Smiths - that’s how much it can alter your perspective I tell you. The fucking Smiths. Mid-December is early, but of course we were blessed, and Courcheval had bumper snow. Were it not for the two Welsh kids playing Stereophonics on repeat all night every night in the next room, it would have been perfect. I played catch up for a number of years as everyone started riding sooner than me, I think catching up by the time I went to Whistler in Canada, and spent ten days eating my friend Number Two’s dust. He is so mellow, kind and unassuming, you would not fear him, even as he said, “come on…let’s go through the trees”. Or “hmm…that’s totally make-able” - which in retrospect means he has considered isn’t actually “totally make-able” at all and has weighed up the odds. A staunch proponent of helmets, I wonder why? He was there all season, and got to an awesome standard of riding so it upped my game by the next time I went to France, when I was all about the need for speed, and undercooked meat. I bought a Ride Timeless, to this day described as demonically fast, hard, responsive and unforgiving - and I loved it. Somehow, as the snow falls, I remember I live in one of the flattest countries in Europe.

grimus album three part three

Sun, 09 Dec 2012 11:32:00 +0000

I’ve come to the conclusion that computers in the studio are evil, and just slow things down. While they pretend to be our friends, I can assure you that if we had a 24 track tape machine, this record would be done by now and the drums would kick you in the face by default from the way magnetic particles react to getting re-homed on tape at maximum velocity.

In fact the truth is we always found ways to squeeze in more tracks, adding little bits of overdub on tracks on sections where nothing was playing, doing submixes and bouncing them, or God forbid - committing to things. While I could make a record that way, really, I need my tech these days, the computer itself to do the business. I could just do without disk problems, software authorisation problems, firewire hassle, volume name is too long for whatever issues. Does a computer make for a better record? No, a different record with a different process. I am aware it makes my process different as I try to make each piece fit with the last sonically, and can almost see ahead in some ways. This chunk of sound means that future chunk of sound can’t live in this space. That kind of thing. A fact I am acutely aware that most people don’t understand judging by what I have heard recently. There is always a separation between the sonic quality of a record and it’s quality, I agree, but this here is an oasis where the norms of what passes the grade are out the window. So in my opinion, the East needs to concentrate on creativity as that is what there is in abundance. Sonically, people are still used to dogshit. And don’t even seem to notice. To that end my plan is rawness, sophisticated rawness. See how you like that. Of course, Lehel’s sections are nothing like that, adding a layer of new found abandon and old school precision to proceedings, layers we need to add that special sheen…once the computer behaves, and decides we can it’s all good. He alternates between John Frusciante late period style chaos and obsessing over things we mortals don’t understand, and that is his magic and why he is invaluable as a creative cog. I haven’t really spewed out the usual level of barely understandable gonzoid ranting during the making of the new Grimus record I know. I apologise. I have on the inside, I promise. Well, in some way I think that is in part because it’s mainly new, almost all of it has never been played before, and I feel they boys want to keep it under wraps until it’s been born. That, and maybe while everyone I am sure was reasonably confident that it would be great, it is very, very new territory so you’ll just have to wait and see as we head back into the newly snow covered Vampireville for some vocals. Speaking of which - where oh where is that singer rapscallion? Even the somewhat elusive Dave Vanian showed up to more sessions when I was making a Damned album (though he did make up for it with style and charm) and that was an all time record when it came to a high scoring game of “spot the singer”!

grimus album three part two

Sun, 09 Dec 2012 11:07:00 +0000

Son, let me tell you about guitars. What you need is a real cool and expensive Mesa Boogie combo, then to cast it’s woefully inadequate preamp aside, and plug an even nastier beast into it’s holes from the rear. If it’s good enough for Slipknot, it’ll probably work for us.

The unfortunately named Valvulator GP3 is a badass preamp rumour has it eviscerated from the VHT Pitbull, named after Pitbull, the rapper or whatever he is - who is from Miami bitch, and doesn’t even play guitar. It can do it ALL. Trust me! You also need some guitars. You need a Stratocaster for those inherently wiry tones, but it won’t stay in tune, so prepare for pain. You apparently need a PRS which you don’t really want to use but belonged to Adi De La Vulture, and rather annoyingly just seems to work and be in tune and have good intonation. We have a Steve Vai model Ibanez acoustic which is pretty nice EXCEPT it is possessed by something evil. When Vali plays a certain song, it gets weird. Very weird. There is no explanation for this, scientific or otherwise. You may also require a hollow body epiphone for those earthy tones, and an ESP mutant Les Paul-a-like. I strongly suggest you check out many of the great Romanian surf music heroes before entering this session, as that knowledge will be essential to proceedings. I realise that there are no such thing, but there will be a test later. You may also like a few pedals, I like this Visual Sound thing. It buffers, and makes this contained midrange thing go down. The rest I left at home, so we use plugins for delays and shit. As far as microphones, I’d suggest a Royer R121, an AKG 414 and a Unidyne 3, which is like a SM57 but older. They will steal the “Blue” thing you were using and got all happy about so forget about that. Whack that into some API preamps, then some API EQ because the Royer is dull as fuck but so fat, or perhaps a Buzz Audio channel strip, depending on if you need LPF and compression or not. It’s the only compressor, so fucking use it, right? Tweak absolutely everything on the way in to perfection as flat guitars don’t really work, record only what you need, making sure it fits with everything else, don’t option b, c and d anything, and you’re good to go. Apogee Shmapogee…then you’re done. Well, after your guitarists stretch themselves, and pour brilliance from their souls for you, that is. Which…they do, of course.

grimus album three part one

Sun, 09 Dec 2012 11:03:00 +0000

“No sleep till Vampireville. #grimusalbumthree is going to be like surprise sex. Titus is getting a watch for xmas. New songs gonna be great.” @spaceraymusic twitter feed. The last record did it’s job, and I admit, perhaps I pushed too hard for a more commercial thing than it needed to be. But then again, maybe that’s why it sold better than everything else and the band had quite the year when it came to being picked out of the had hat to play some big shows with some bands who know about real bands and real records. Who knows.

I do know we need to thank Guerrilla and the publisher for getting it. This album is different, and I have to say…kind of exciting. Part finding it’s form as it comes together, part chaos, everyone’s contributing, the boys have some great songs, and we are knee deep, possibly deeper in anarchy. A more wussy individual might worry, but I been around, I seen DEATH in the studio babies, never mind murder on the dance-floor. Between bus rides to hell, Tamas was lashing out like a wild beast seemingly possessed by a polyrhythmic rhino on his drum tracks leaving only wonder and mystery as well as dust. I still find things to tweak, such is the no way could you play that on xbox rock band complexity. Titus has been tortured like a hostage laying vicious cables of bass over this stampede, chained, well…huddling for warmth at least to a vintage radiator and proving to be extremely bad at telling the time. His bass for want of a better word…snarls. And next, oh next is the world of guitars. We should upgrade that to a universe. We will upgrade that. While I don’t like things usually quite so wild style, I have every confidence that with the usual nipping and tucking and dangerous manoeuvres that we will turn out something quite special and fresh. That handsome bastard the dentist will be on deck next week to pull out some brilliance, and Vali - who I must say has only excelled as a writer will be responsible for the growth of what this band is capable of will be I hope, pleased as we get things together…

Nightlight

Sun, 21 Oct 2012 03:57:33 +0100

It creeps and twists through gaps and crevices, the smallest of spaces, through brick, wood, plaster and lathe, the sound of another’s nightlight. Disjointed conversation already in another language transformed to yet another through muffled obfuscation. In some way perhaps even time has been bent at this small hour as it appears to come from the past, not now, perhaps a radio tuned to a frequency that is bouncing back from space, once sent there to find life, now returning other-worldly, long dead. In truth it is most likely filling a space here, not returning from the void, preventing awful silence, or left on as he fell into oblivion. Still, the nightlight for the blind drunk shines a little too bright through these walls for me, and I would prefer the awful silence.

Powerpop History 101

Fri, 12 Oct 2012 10:08:09 +0100

Powerpop History 101:

Your reading: An article about the origins of power-pop, from the 70’s through the late 80’s for us music nerds. There will be a quiz.

Sweet 80’s soul for Sunday. Check out their older tunes,...

Sun, 30 Sep 2012 09:08:42 +0100

Sweet 80’s soul for Sunday. Check out their older tunes, too…

mdtepsic:

Keep on Lovin’ Me by The Whispers

Pono - save our sound?

Sat, 29 Sep 2012 12:19:44 +0100

I read with interest an article on Neil Young’s company Pono, who’s aim - largely due to Mr Young’s commendable zealotry regarding sound quality - is providing music lovers with a higher fidelity audio and pushing everyone else such as Apple with it, fidelity being something that has been on a slippery slope downhill since the advent of CD.

44.1k 16 bit CD technology was never the peak of fidelity, and we have moved ever further from Analog since the day it was born. Sure, the labels got to sell us everything again which was nice, and then again as Digital took over, so here we are at round three, this time with the silver lining of something better sounding, and without the restrictions of the previous attempts at hi-res audio.

On that front, we all know by now convenience won. Don’t get angry at me, I am someone obsessed with audio, I have dedicated my life to it, but it is the truth; the convenience of lossy formats like MP3, and AAC combined with the rise of success of electronic devices that play these files, and the digital lifestyle all collided at the same time, making sure there was never even a battle that could be won by something like quality.

It’s pleasing to hear “the big three have remastered 8,000 catalog albums in high resolution”, but let’s face it, unless they are coming from either analog masters, or hi-res masters in the first place, this is bullshit. I know, as I have been providing largely 24 bit/44 masters at mixdown for over a decade, and before that I promise it was 16 bit DAT. Many of which today, are completely unplayable.

As far as the convenience of a new, better sounding, and with it larger file - a lot of places still struggle with poor internet infastructure, storage is still not that cheap in devices, and one has to ask whether we are ready to purchase remastered, re-remastered, re-re-mastered back catalogue. It also does not address the issue we face here in my new home’s market: a huge majority of people do not buy music. If I can’t sell music to make money, I am re-cast as a robber baron by artists as I think that it is justified to take a slice of the income related to activites stimulated by the release of a new record. This also has a trickle down effect in my industry; nobody can be a professional if they can’t make a living doing a job that nobody is willing to pay for, even if what they provide is clearly worth paying for. Consequently, corner cutting, DIY (not always bad when it comes to innovation, or democratization, but imagine a DIY hospital full of DIY doctors being you only remaining option) and lower quality records are the order of the day, further devaluating the thing itself, and perpetuating the thought that it has little, or no value.

Ultimately, I truly hope people love music, and I’d love it to sound as good as possible, so am all for the concept behind Pono. Increasing worth, quality and convenience are all key if we wish to live in a world where music has any value left.

fur.

Tue, 11 Sep 2012 08:15:00 +0100

I admit it is hard to admire my Adonis-like physique beneath the fine resplendant coat, nay…pelt that my manliness is bestowing upon me as age advances. Fur is cruel as they say, these campaigners.

It is, it obscures the subtle curves, the lines, the shit Michelangelo and pornographers love so dearly, and worse, far worse. Like coming out of your ears. Having murdered every follicle on my head, nature and my testosterone reserves have decided that I will sprout bountifully every-single-fucking-where-else on my body. Nature knows I need to keep warm, and to wick sweat effectively away from my body to keep this machine at optimum performance levels at all times in order to live up to my full potential. This must be how Paul Stanley of Kiss has felt his whole life from 1976, hanging off the empire state building, his fur mopping up the beads of vertigo induced terror to the disapproving moment he black-duct-taped his boots together at Wembley Arena on the comeback tour, hoping he didn’t catch a few strays while bending down taking care of business. I am a man now, yes - a real man. I’m not sure when this happened. Yet - I pity the smooth skinned fools that have no fur. Nature wants you dead. It’s that simple. Dinosaurs? No fur. All dead. Snakes? Nobody likes them. Imagine if they tasted good. No more snakes, ever, starting with North America. They already fit in a hot dog bun.