I was the first kid on my block with an album by Nirvana when Smells Like Teen Spirit appeared on MTV, way back in 1991/1992, in an era when Amy Grant, Wilson Philips, Celine Dion, Elton John, Mariah Carey, and even Vanilla Ice were all over the charts, and weren’t they sweet!
And then there was Kurt Cobain, voice of any and all generations then alive (except for the vast brain-dead majority), and then there wasn’t, and there were art-bands I like like Radiohead and voices bouncing off the far far walls of our global echo-chamber, like M.I.A, but nobody loaded the orb of everything on his or her shoulders and staggered half a step with it, or inhaled the ineffable spiritus mundi and translated it all into music.
What are we now, right now, except so many weasels fighting in a hole, on the eve of another Great War, with a hundred little wars already waiting to join it?
Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare
Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery
Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,
To crawl in her blood, and go scot-free;
The night can sweat with terror as before
We pieced our thought into philosophy,
And planned to bring the world under a rule,
Who are but weasels fighting in a hole…
But if any band can sum up who we are, it’s the otherwise unknown local Canadian thrash/punk band Pantychrist, whose meth-possessed lead singer now languishes in jail for a stupid, low-rent murder, and she even has some wise advice for you, Buckwheat!
Never Love Anything, because who wants to love it if you have to watch it burn?
