Bob Goldberg & David Yow❤️Mormon Girls
A punchy title, even if it's low-rent and borrowing from a pot boiler, can make all the difference. Yeah, my friend Jeff and I did that. Not about that, at all. If it exists, it's probably somewhere in the vault, anyhow. Alas, no Mormon girls are featured in this. Suckered, again.
Don't know why his pseudonym was Bob Goldberg. Possibly he had a grudge against Seinfeld. Not Larry David though. Because that would have been an error. Back in the Summer of 1998 nobody knew him. It took his lightly anti-Semitic depiction of LA low-society to make himself a household name. His ancestors down there held slaves, in a PBS switcheroo.
He hadn't yet eschewed the 'Bee Movie' opportunity. Or that laughable pop tart abortion thing. 'There is no such thing as Palestine'. Read a map? Shoshana could prolly. Or, a book, for that matter, limousine liberal. One thing he'll never do, at least nowadays, is read the room.
A picture is said to subsume a thousand words. Well, music rests well above photography. Which means the followi...
Saw 'em in Philly. Fcut crown. No way out. DY had Six Buds in his claws. Shirt off. Immediately. Saw his cock (from the balcony) after the 3rd song. Cyanide the vents? Late, for him. Or so I've heard.
Ruthless revulsion at this horrible shit. Yas Queen!
Just no cock-fucking mercy, a refined stance of the highest excellence of which, I do declare, I (Me Me Me, far too many fucking 'I's in this Shit-McSlurry) heartily approve with all requiste warmth due to whover needs it.
For Mary Goree, came over here by way of that island thanks to The Pirate Taliaferro, whose namesake was the great Ray Taliaferro, whom, I'll venture but one San Franciscan on here even knows, at all. I used to go to sleep, depressed, having slept all day, to his nightly swan song at 5 AM. Best radio talk-show host I ever heard. The only contender to the throne would be Phil Hendry, but he's his own entire universe. Fuck it, stick it in here, too.
All of these articles are miserable dog's breakfastez.
I have too much respect for the dead to relate how a revered figure in San Francisco society ended up lost, alone and in rural Kentucky. Found dead, by strangers.
[Jazz interlude, for Ron Avery, who died recently. A friend of my father's from Bucks Couny Courier Times days. He I mourn. He became a stalwart Philly Daily News Reporter and childhood Father-type figure. You remember. The jokes. The light hearted jazz beat songs that somehow felt heavy. RIP. Mopedy mope. Mope. Looking forward to seeing Serge & Benji. Life is what it is. He loved life, or tried to by way of bringing Philadelphia history to life to You Tube. I respected, him. Just got back from outer space. Izmir Mom died too soon. God bless him, he tried, as I guess we all do. You can't even feel happy memories, anything other than badly. Probably everybody does, in fact, it's just the way of the world, the moon and stars. Kibbutzim, but not for long. Anyway, for what it's worth, this is Ben Webster performing. You know, a good person. Met this chick without no face. My dad hated jazz. RIP Ron (and Suzette, maybe her even moreso, but, for concision's sake) Oh, well. Skip the beat / it ain't no place All four of you are remembered in the Dutch Country. See y'all in October. I hope.]
The only one to like said below Facebook post, back in the day. For very Nigger-Hating revulsion reasons. "Sometimes I'm ashamed of 'The Whites'" sed televangelist Robert Tilton, the King of All American Christian Kings. More on him later, although I wrote it up for Salon in 1999. One of the very best, her. A great lady who did it to herself, as we all do.
Less yack yack. More Rawk.
CD: Derek from Lompoc liked this band. In his typically predictable too-cool-4-school way, he had to one-up me by demanding that I, yet again, listen to the unlistenable band 'Scratch Acid', David Yow's severe band that made noise rock in the least palatable way. God, that guy was a fuckin' drag, bro. Dickhead. CG dismissed him with utter contempt, correctly, it turned out.
Meh. Just going through various back cataglogues. Purist bitchez would say: he didn't feature the earlier shit. Fuck you, forever, taste makers. I featured the songs I heard when I bought the album.
These pitiful brainiacs-in-their-own-minds-worms. Incapable of approaching a girl, much less charming her, much less making love to her. They might fuck a whore. For money. They'd pay with a three dollar bill after fucking up a two car parade.
But they're going to tell normal people about art or life? No, they aren't. They can't. Those who can't, criticise. Those who can write drunken missives in the middle of the day about a Nowheresville Band (Chicago). It's all boring; it's all bullshit. But, whatever else is true, the music of Top Shelf. Change my mind. Fight fight fight, said Kaiser Untermensch rite after Butler PA.
Aww shit, almost forgot this. It was David Yow's assessment of meeting the children from Slint. Don't get me wrong / He's a nice guy / I like him just fine / But he's a mouth breather.
Which is a light-hearted way to finish. Because Spiderland is beyond Duane Dennison & Co. Just ask Steve Albini. 'Ten Fucking Stars'. Maybe next time.
No way out.
