This is the tale of a bearded sloth who debases himself so they can get their rocks off. Recruits five skinny, better-looking men to play guitar parts he'll never play again. So it's lash after lash like a budget Christ from every blog or zine that took the chance to look twice. I'm not saying that this dude is me or speaking brutally of myself to gain traction. Action! There goes the camera. Click. American Indie-Rock is a game of pricks. They're the gods of what was independent rock and now is vaguely refined hogwash that I mock. Jacket patched up with a Wesleyan degree. Legs bound. Tongue out. Grinning as they piss on me but I don't care. It's what I'm known for. I'll take it gleefully. I'm wrong and you're right and that's my thesis here tonight with my gut and my bulge. I'll make the whole world scream, the whole room bleed. I'll lose for your gain if it'll spruce up my refrain. It's what they want. The band plays while the ship goes down. "I hate that dude now that he's married. He's got a baby on the way; poor Sherri. That's not apropos. He's not the wretch we know. Chop his family up so we can feed them to the front row. Spike his fifteenth espresso with drugs so he's convinced it's a manic delusion to know true love. Be 19 with a joint in hand. Never change the band. Never ever be a ...real man." This isn't for the ones who know what it really means. They just follow other people's dreams. They were told by a friend of a friend of a friend. Music made to be used and forgotten again like a whore, like a pair of washed out expensive retro boys underwear we can never repair.
Lyrics submitted by spectracide