He was an artisan, there was no mistaking that. He had those little glasses that artisans wore, perched right up on his nose in a wise, knowing way. You could just tell that this dude could carve cool little things out of wood. And he could probably bake a loaf of bread that would make your grandmother weep. Nothing that came from this man, this master of crafts and practical arts, would resemble the cheap industrial simulacra that most people purchased, ate, drank, lied upon, or respired within. This was a man for our times, a man who could produce artisanal dips, whips, sauces, and waters on command. A true human, in other words, and not just a wet sack of sorrowful hot breath.
The last of the new interns had run far far away, leaping over the hedge and across the stream to the bright green freedom of the forest, and beyond there to the mountains studded with the wrecks of old planes, the accidental ruins of the time before the time before. Huddled in the soft metal shelter of the relics, the interns rub their hands above an impromptu fire, lit no doubt when one of them shot a flare gun into a pile of paper, and shout to each other above the wind about their plans to live fresh lives without the strictures of any program, guide, or government, their eyes at wide aperture to take in every prospect, their voices garbled by desire, statements distorted by words formerly only thought and not spoken. I imagine the tales they told and tell each other, here and on the mountain, and I construct the diorama of their escape with the aid of mental condensation of thought and the manipulation of the flattened pulp of extinct trees, a scene of overjoy before the catastrophe, before the mountain battens down its hatches with its thick wind and snow blight, a fluttering of moths before the crackle of the lamplight. I put the box on its side and install the figures. We later take turns with the telescope, spying on their progress, those young dumb pioneers who know nothing of climbing, cold, ice, or how to build a fire, but yearn without saying to stand on the peak, they will walk through cold as thick and present as clear jello to their tombs at the top, where they’ll look down through the valley at us, gazing back up.
[Caveat: the audio for this is taken from the awesome video for this song which you should go watch]
You Go Where I Put You is a little less
Mu than Thighs on Vinyl
the first Fitness song
a little more
Junior Boys x NIN (?)
Big neon synths
Smooth louche vocals
“You always wanted something out of reach” (Tantalus?)
and says, politely, understandingly,
“YOU CAN HAVE A FREAKOUT”
And I do. I have many.
Throughout the day.
“You go where I put you
I know what’s best for you.”
This is a song for times of arrogance,
certainty, BIG plans, little grooves, and
the feeling of knowing you might be right
This is after you’ve been strung out on Women, Fels-Naptha, Androgynous Mind, Cindy Lee (all Pat Flegel), and Viet Cong (Matt Flegel). You find Faux Fur, the now-sadly-defunct band of Matt and Pat’s little brother, Andrew. Faux Fur sounds more like Women than any of the other post-Women bands. More like Public Strain-era Women than anything else that’s come after Public Strain. Which isn’t to say that Faux Fur sounds exactly like Women, but it’s pretty close. This band is more playful than Women ever were, which is probably a good thing, and they know (or knew) their way around a tune. Almost all the tracks on their second album (self-titled) are catchy and feature that same sort of wirework guitar tone that you can hear on Women’s albums, in Chad VanGaalen’s work, and in parts of the Viet Cong album. “Stoop” is one of the best songs on the album, so sinuous and defiant. This album is well worth your time—it sounds like glamorous evil. It’s too bad Faux Fur’s gone, but let’s see what happens next.