the intellectual dumbass: or, how I feel even if I have no empathy.
" A while ago, I found myself in bloody exhaust grease London again with an all-consuming urge to hunt for two rare things: back issues of NME rumored to be secretly hidden in glass casings and submerged in the fry vats of every kebab machine in the U.K. and the very-out-of-print first Raincoats LP.
The NME search was a clever, saucy upstart of an attempt to be, uh, nasty.
However, the Lord and Julian Cope himself know how we need, need, need the
NME to embrace the unifying hands of our children across this big blue marble
and NIRVANA's tarty musical career. So please bless us again - we'll forever
feed off of your high-calorie boggy turbinates.
In an attempt to satisfy the second part of my quest, I went to the Rough
Trade shop and, of course, found no Raincoats record in the bin. I then asked
the woman behind the counter about it and she said “well, it happens
that I'm neighbors with Anna (member of The Raincoats) and she works at an
antique shop just a few miles from here.” So she drew me a map and I
started on my way to Anna's.
Sometime later, I arrived at this elfin shop filled with something else I've
compulsively searched for over the past few years - really old fucked up
marionette-like wood carved dolls (quite a few hundred years old). Lots of
them... I've fantasized about finding a ship filled with so many. They
wouldn't accept my credit card but the dolls were really too expensive anyway.
Anna was there, however, so I politely introduced myself with a fever-red
face and explained the reason for my intrusion. I can remember her mean boss
almost setting me on fire with his glares. She said “well, I may have
a few lying around so, if I find one, I'll send it to you (very polite, very
English).” I left feeling like a dork, like I had violated her space,
like she probably thought my band was tacky.
A few weeks later I received a vinyl copy of that wonderfully classic scripture
with a personalized dust sleeve covered with xeroxed lyrics, pictures, and
all the members' signatures. There was also a touching letter from Anna.
It made me happier than playing in front of thousands of people each night,
rock-god idolization from fans, music industry plankton kissing my ass, and
the million dollars I made last year. It was one of the few really important
things that I've been blessed with since becoming an untouchable boy genius.
It was as rewarding as touring with Shonen Knife and watching people practically
cry with joy at their honesty. It made people happy and it made me happy
knowing that I had helped bring them to the U.K.
It was as rewarding as the last Vaselines show in Edinburgh. They reformed
just to play with us in their home town, probably having no idea how exciting
and flattering it was for us (and how nervous we were to meet them).
It was as rewarding as being asked to support Sonic Youth on two tours, totally
being taken under their wing and being showed what dignity really means.
It was as rewarding as the drawings Daniel Johnston sent me, or the Stinky
Puffs single from Jad Fair's son, or playing on the same bill as Greg Sage
in L.A., or being asked to help produce the next Melvins record, or being
on the Wipers' Compilation, or Thor from T.K. giving me a signed first edition
of Naked Lunch, or making a friend like Stephen Pavlovic - our Australian
tour promoter who sent me a Mazzy Star LP on vinyl, or playing “The
Money Will Roll Right In” with Mudhoney, or having the power to insist
on bringing Bjorn Again to the Reading Festival, or being able to afford
to bring my friend Ian along on tour just to have a good time, or paying
Calamity Jane five-thousand dollars to be heckled by twenty thousand macho
boys in Argentina, or asking my friends Fits Of Depression to play with us
at The Seattle Coliseum, or playing with Poison Idea at No On Nine benefit
in Portland organized by Gus Van Zandt, or being a part of one of L7's pro-choice
benefits in L.A., or kissing Chris and Dave on Saturday Night Live just to
spite homophobes, or meeting Iggy Pop, or playing with The Breeders, Urge
Overkill, The T.V. Personalities, The Jesus Lizard, Hole, Dinosaur Jr., etc.
While all these things were very special, none were half as rewarding as
having a baby with a person who is the supreme example of dignity, ethics
and honesty. My wife challenges injustice and the reason her character has
been so severely attacked is because she chooses not to function the way
the white corporate man insists. His rules for women involve her being
submissive, quiet, and non-challenging. When she doesn't follow his rules,
the threatened man (who, incidentally, owns an army of devoted traitor women)
gets scared.
A big “fuck you” to those of you who have the audacity to claim
that I'm so naive and stupid that I would allow myself to be taken advantage
of and manipulated.
I don't feel the least bit guilty for commercially exploiting a completely
exhausted Rock youth Culture because, at this point in rock history, Punk
Rock (while still sacred to some) is, to me, dead and gone. We just wanted
to pay tribute to something that helped us to feel as though we had crawled
out of the dung heep of conformity. To pay tribute like an Elvis or Jimi
Hendrix impersonater in the tradition of a bar band. I'll be the first to
admit that we're the 90's version of Cheap Trick or The Knack but the last
to admit that it hasn't been rewarding.
At this point I have a request for our fans. If any of you in any way hate
homosexuals, people of different color, or women, please do this one favor
for us - leave us the fuck alone! Don't come to our shows and don't buy our
records.
Last year, a girl was raped by two wastes of sperm and eggs while they sang
the lyrics to our song “Polly.” I have a hard time carrying on
knowing there are plankton like that in our audience. Sorry to be so anally
P.C. but that's the way I feel.
Love,
Kurdt (the blond one)"
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