I wrote a draft of an introduction for this feature months ago wherein I explained to our readers that the reason we aggravate them so much is because, both personally and generally, we hate every single one of them. This was all very cute but, in the end, I scuttled the draft on the grounds that it may not be in the site’s best interest to describe at length the variety of methods I would use if possible to murder our readers (“gore clumped to my teeth, my fists like ground beef,” and so on). Still, as we prepare yet again to drape our spidery hatebag across your forehead(s) I find myself once again wanting to sardonically, self-destructively elucidate why we infuriate you. To pretend, as it were, that this was all intentional; that riling certain segments with our opinions on indie rock (or, in one woeful overstep, Nas) was something we set out to do.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Hatebag

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Dear Readers,

Oh those late nights, hunched over our keyboards in paralysing contempt, unable to control our fingers, hitting “Send” and damning our words to eternal searing of each other’s Inbox. Or at least until we delete it or let it get covered up in hundreds of spam mails for Erectile Dysfunction treatment (because we haven’t had any lives outside of our tumultuous relationship with you). We both know we’ll regret saying these things in the morning.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Hatebag

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You were eighteen years old at the time, but when you tell the story to friends or on third or fourth dates, when scotch enters the equation and sexual histories are broached, you say that you were fifteen. It makes you sound more experienced, your sensibilities more fully honed. Suzanne Beachley, braces attracting invisible radio signals, red hair escaping clasps with an urgent frizz, smelled a bit too much like cats, perspired a bit too much with nervousness. But she held the key to something that was, at least for your repressed Catholic upbringing, so monumental and yet so abstract. You knew you needed It. You just weren’t quite sure what “It” was yet. It was to be six minutes and forty seconds of both education and ecstasy.

You were both jumpy. Her giggle peaked and then broke into a strangled caw that you tried to ignore but understandably became fixated on. You acted indifferent, then pressed too hard, and then overcompensated with more indifference by feigning interest in a television program. You knew that the window of your parent’s semi-monthly dinner at Outback was fast sliding closed and the specter of this lost opportunity might haunt you both for the rest of your young lives, which you had vowed to end before hitting thirty. Drastic action, a détente, was called for.

You pulled from behind your pillow a CD wallet. You can remember feeling its weight, as if indicating that, yes, you were correct -- having the combined artistic output of Jerry Cantrell, the Gandharvas and Sloan in your corner will catalyze this event. You select, as a dueler might his choice of weapon or a golfer his club, a plastic disc and slide it sensually into the player. Your choosing was careful. This will be Your Band, the one you will have a special connection to for the rest of your life, as inseparable as your extremities. From this point on every time you hear the singer’s characteristic nasal hackery you will think of this evening and the cosmic heights of pleasure you were preparing to scale, and smile knowingly to yourself. Every new album this band releases from now until the end of your life will be a reminder of what you and Suzanne Beachley shared.

Except something is wrong -- you don’t remember there being someone else in the room. Who is that man, in your bedroom, in your recliner? Why is he sitting there, smoking his cigarette, hacking a cough into his balled fist? Who is Sparks, and why is this man wearing their t-shirt? He’s staring at your stereo with inexplicable malice, occasionally rolling his eyes and gesturing in mock defeat. You can’t help but pause in your navigation of Suzanne’s metal-lined teeth as he speaks:

“That guitar tone is meant to imply late-sixties arena balladry, but really says “I’m imposing myself on a time period I was born too late to enjoy!” The figure, seeming pleased with himself, jots this down on the back of a receipt he produces from faded corduroys. You try to return to the task at hand, wondering why Suzanne’s belt buckle was designed to be so overly complicated.

The figure, sipping from a flask, then stands and walks over to the stereo, turning it louder.

“No, no, no! What is this garbage? Pompous conceit, that’s what! Who is he to criticize mall kids?” The figure sits on the edge of your bed and begins muttering to himself, grinding out his cigarette on your bedroom carpet as he rests his head in his hands.

You don’t remember any of this happening the first time through; this intruder has inserted himself. He’s ruined Your Band, and thereby ruined your memory of the moment that made them Your Band. This man is a cock: self-centered and unaware but…wait, that guitar tone does sound like a bad estimate of late-sixties arena balladry. His correctness seems like a weight, crushing the both of you slowly. You mouth silently to Suzie, “just one sec,” and roll over to seat yourself at his side.

“Hey man,” you say, feeling awkward in boxer-briefs. “You’re a nitwit. This record is brilliant.” He seems despondent and unresponsive. He’s saying something faraway about Leonard Cohen re-releases.

You return to the task of becoming a man and fumble towards a finish even less satisfying than you remembered. You know that every time Your Band releases a new record that you will not be able to help but remember Suzanne’s look, as if she were collating data in her head. But as the album’s opening number fades, you also know that you will remember the figure. The putrid presence, a festering wound in the corner of your room like a Lynchian sidebar. His smell, not unlike the smell of the back seat in an old car...


This is your hate. This is our hatebag.

*****

Re: Dears: Gang of Losers

Wow, pretty harsh. Was it necessary? It appears that Gang Of Losers really struck a nerve. Either that or one of us killed your dog or stole your boyfriend/girlfriend. I don't know if we should be apologising or what. I mean,we're still happy with it. It sadddens me personally to know that you loathe it so much. It's really too bad because it was written for you, from the heart and all that cheesy stuff. Maybe you'll give it another chance someday? Anyway, good luck with everything.

Yours,
Murray Lightbun

*****

Re: Bloc Party: A Weekend in the City

Let's see here, I'm going to go ahead and forgive a professional review the mistake of "Bloc Party want to be as anthemic" and the natural flaw in grammar here. I'm also going to go ahead and accept that "anthemic" is used in the context of anthem or it's actually a word. I also want to know how many times your itunes or media player has actually played through A Weekend In The City.

I understand that writing reviews on albums must be a difficult task, ripping apart an album on a set schedule takes some talent.

Let's talk about your review Conrad. You started a review pretty much like any other Internet reviewer would start it. (Pitchfork / Stylus / Filter etc.) You acknowledge that you enjoyed the debut album "jumped on the bandwagon" or the album previous, you list some flaws and then you wrap it up nicely "what Okereke is doing this weekend" to mirror the album you are reviewing now. But this one is surprising, you throw in some references to Green Day and U2. While this is slightly annoying, considering you should be comparing Gang of Four or Sonic Youth if you should be comparing at all, you try to allude to very-American based bands. That's fine. Now what starts to get annoying in your review is the pseudo-intelligent quips on politics and consumerism. It makes sense of course, if a song writer is going to write songs about politics or consumerism then naturally a reviewer should write reviews about the song writers politics and ideals. Because this follows natural order, I'm going to go ahead and talk about your widely awesome generalization about "Price of Gas". According to an actual quote by Kele the song is about "denial and complacency." It's not really making "blind judgements" on politics. But I guess it's okay to just joke instead of actually defending your point.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Animal Collective, Blocparty, Bonnaroo2007, Can, Dears, Deathcabforcutie, Destroyer, Dominikeulberg, Elliottbrood, Guillemots, Hatebag, Jdilla, Marsvolta, Muse, Mychemicalromance, Nineinchnails, Rkelly, Thomyorke, Tool, Wolfparade, Youwillknowusbythetrailofdead

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