thisbandsucks - Tumblr blog

[thisbandsucks]

Just found your blog (first and last visit ever). Basically you wanted to be a musician, but had no talent, so you're salty about it and try to tear down musicians instead of creating positive feedback for bands who are trying. Does that about sum it up? For the record I'm not in a band. I have no musical talent. I just love music.

Last visit ever!? No! Wait, please stop, don't go!

[thisbandsucks]

I saw Field Club play at O'Leaver's this weekend. Here's a photo I took with my iPhone:

I just spent twenty minutes reading Hearnebraska. You may have left the This Band Sucks, but the This Band Sucks never left you.

[thisbandsucks]

Hey man- you were right on the money most of the time and a gifted writer but definitely not "the greatest writer to ever narrate the Nebraska music fairytale".

No actually I am.

[thisbandsucks]

New Omaha Band Roundup

⊗ Coaxed: former members of Capgun Coup, Ty Segall, and Sun Settings; new tape sounds like somebody left a Thee Oh Sees record in the microwave for too long.

Why you care: they're fresh off a tour with killer blow. Joining them on their tour was the husband & wife duo, Killer Blow, local monogamy-core with a beach/surf vibe straight out of Hurricane Katrina.

Upcoming shows: Coaxed will be playing at The Slowdown in April on even-numbered days, Hotel Frank on odd-numbered days.

⊗ Twinsmith: when Sun Settings broke up to form Coaxed (above), the Omaha music scene was deeply shaken. How could we replace such an innovative and pioneering voice in our angelic Omaha choir? Thank god for Twinsmith; instead of developing their own sound, members of the now-defunct Betsy Wells have spent months in the studio striving to bring you exactly the kind of music Sun Settings stopped making about 5 or 6 weeks ago.

Thank you, Twinsmith.

Why you care: you can find Twinsmith online at facebook.com/Twinsmithband and twitter.com/twinsmithmusic and soundcloud.com/twinsmithband and instagram.com/twinsmithband and twinsmith.com and twinsmith.edu and twinsmith'sbutt.com and getrich_quick_with_twinsmith.biz and twinsmith_isnt_racist.gov and fat_TWIN_cocks_punish_anna_nicole_SMITH.co.uk.

Upcoming shows: April 6th at O'Leaver's with Water Liars, Field Club, and nobody in the audience.

⊗ Pleasure Adapter: when Betsy Wells disbanded so they could focus on the daunting task of writing even less-talented Sun Setting songs (as Twinsmith, above), they shocked the world, but Jeff Ankenbauer didn't cry about it.

I mean, he almost cried. It was tough. But he held it in.

Let's keep this a secret between you and me—Betsy Wells' breakup was hard on Jeff. He was so distraught that for a while he quit making music altogether; he's lost a ton of weight, along with his urge to kill.

Why you care: Now Mr. Ankenbauer is back on the scene, and this ex-Shanks ex-Saudi Arabia frontman just wants everyone to "get along." Go ahead you stupid piss-drinkers, you fucking pussies: go ahead and listen to these cute little songs he made.

Upcoming shows: you can hear Pleasure Adapter's music playing during game show introductions, the final boss of 90's-era Nintendo games, and at Japanese video arcades.

⊗ Goon Saloon: three guys choose a shitty band name, and play even shittier heavy rock in the vein of Pavement and STNNNG.

Why you care: because you are good at pretending to be supportive of your friends.

Upcoming shows: let's face it, you're not gonna go see this band play.

[thisbandsucks]

Anybody read today's HearNebraska?

[thisbandsucks]

Clippings:

— Omahype.com

— Omaha mayor and frequent face at local DIY shows, Jim Suttle

[thisbandsucks]

Collecting my gold watch, retiring myself to death

I recently received an e-mail that bothered me. I won't name names, but let's just say it came from a certain writer for a certain Nebraska Music website who wrote a certain 2013 prediction list. I was a little annoyed because, in his e-mail, this mysterious writer took credit for bringing me "out of retirement."

Who said I went into retirement? What, a guy can't go through a month or two of bone-crippling depression, he can't vow to never speak another foul word about his fellow humans, his gentle soul-brothers and soul-sisters (with which he suddenly feels infinite kinship, instantaneous and absolute sympathy in our silent despair, connected with my automatic spirit-brethren as tiny droplets in the glorious ocean of humanity—praise Jah), without people thinking he "retired?"

If I ever did retire, it would take more than one article written by one neophyte to draw me out.

(Note to the mysterious writer: you wrote one [one: 1] article that many people seemed to enjoy. Now go out and do it again, and again, and again, wonder boy.)

No, it would take far more than a blowup doll's gossip column to pry me away from the eternal bender that is blog retirement. It would take something sexier, something aimed directly at my own head, something like:

1. Shitty Copycat Bloggers — Have you read the latest anonymous Omaha music blog? It's called Omaha Kuntz, and it was written by somebody who never once thought, "maybe I should proofread this." You can always tell when a writer is smoking too much marijuana because of a certain disconnected nostalgia, a certain literary excess that says, "It has never occurred to me that not all of my thoughts are extraordinarily interesting."

Omaha Kuntz is not my peer or colleague, or my partner in crime. I would gladly come out of retirement if only to say, "Dude, we are not friends."

2. The breakup of Sun Settings — Just kidding.

3. The exquisite female form — I have always thought that anonymously writing my incendiary music opinions would help me get a girlfriend. Yet for some unknown reason I remain alone. Jenna Morrison (Conduits) doesn't know my name. Sarah Bohling (Icky Blossoms) has not responded to the increasingly frantic love-letters I've been sending. The disappointment is enough to send a man into early retirement.

If there is anything keeping me going, it is the vast, untapped reservoir of beautiful den-mothers who populate the Omaha music scene. I am obsessed. I watch The Mynabirds' "Generals" music video every night before bed (after my customary rye Manhattan with Carpano Antica vermouth and a cap full of mouthwash). I love this video because of its commitment to a classical feminized beauty ideal that turns me, a heterosexual dick-squeezing man, on.

"Generals" endorses that timeless feminine quality that first rose to prominence during the Renaissance—

—and has endured into today's popular culture outlets. Lessons from Da Vinci's mysterious and coy Mona Lisa (above) can be learned every day on MTV and in the critically acclaimed swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated:

What is Brooklyn Decker (above) smiling about? I guess we'll never know.

In particular, I would like to focus on Raphael's world-famous Sistine Madonna (below). Drink up the boldness of the composition: the lowly devotion yet dignified communality of the two saints, leading in triangular-pyramidal fashion to the apex, the holiness of the Virgin herself.

The curtains part above ethereal clouds like a stage over heaven. The pathetic humility of the saints combined with the sacrosanct luxury of the Virgin creates an iconic celebrity indifference; the steady and infinite patience of the pristine white hand that holds the Christ Child. We, the lowly saints, are lifted by her presence into the theater of Elysium. Thank you, Lady Madonna, thank you.

Compare this to another virginal scene, from The Mynabirds' heavenly "Generals" music video (below). Observe the feeble and inadequate saints at the feet of the holy and venerable Virgin. Lady Burhenn sits atop the matrilineal pyramid like it's the wet mouth of God. The pyramid's apex is the celestial Mynabirds, and its base is the vulgar Hers and the indigent Wayward Little Satan Daughters. Burhenn's sanctified aspect pulls these two destitute vixens from the stench of their own filth.

Pristine Lady Burhenn, with your skin as pure as the cold driven snow—your tight little booty shorts drive me to madness.

For those who did not follow my admittedly complex yet highly insightful analysis, allow me to explain. There is a feminist pecking order in this town, and the above photograph represents only three of the more recognizable musical faces, each in the appropriate order in terms of both full-fledged babe status and feminist outreach potential.

There is Lady Burhenn (Mynabirds) in the center, with court jesters Rachel and Melissa on each side. Rachel and Melissa feature heavily in the happy-go-lucky pop-quartet HERS. HERS used to be called Honeybee & Hers, but strangers kept referring to them as "The Honeybees," or would confuse them for two wholly separate bands. Honeybee & Hers used to cover Rilo Kiley songs, but since becoming HERS they've only covered Rilo songs.

The court jesters Rachel and Melissa are also the sole members of the riot grrrl duo Wayward Little Satan Daughters. I have provided a video of this band for reference:

Listen to that chorus: "Fuck! You!"

"Fuck! You!" ??

Either this is an invitation to coitus, or it is close-fisted hatred. Quite frankly this band is a little rude. Listen to the song: the drums are off time, the guitar riff is shaky and unconfident. This clip shows how sloppy and angry the court jesters Rachel and Melissa become without Lady Burhenn to keep them in line, both musically and feministically.

Lady Burhenn imparts a godlike sophistication upon the two jesters Rachel and Melissa. Without her, they slip into the realm of "punk," or "angry," or "scary." I am afraid. After watching the above clip, I could not buy coffee for weeks; I feared that jester Rachel was going to beat me up (because I am male). I used to sip mocha lattes and stare from afar (because—I admit—I was in love with the beautiful jester), but no more.

This riot grrrl war-mongering isn't where it ends, either. I hear that the Court Jesters are raising an army. They call it Club No Quiet. People say it is a gang of beautiful female thugs who find men and beat them with Clubs, and they are Not very Quiet.

This type of femme-vigilante justice is exactly the type of hooliganism that would draw someone like me out of retirement. There is a girl-power totem pole in this town, and Wayward Little Satan Daughters has stepped out of line. I would most assuredly come out of retirement to reconstruct that pole in its proper distribution:

Angry punk nonsense belongs at the bottom of the pole. It is not "art," as HERS refers to it. It is two berserk, beautiful, unchained monsters who must be reigned in by the calming presence of Lady Burhenn's creamy white lusciousness. I shudder, fellas. I shudder.

It's enough to make a man retire.

[thisbandsucks]

Who will discover my work when I'm dead; a journal entry

There are two things in this world: presence and absence. I am thinking here of Hans Brinker, the little dutch boy who stuck his finger in the dyke. He was standing there, shivering with cold, chinese fingertrapped to a stone wall, holding back an indifferent, burgeoning ocean, all until he froze to death like an animal. This is what happiness is like.

This is life: holes and things to fill them, and nothing else. For example, we were sitting in a tree all day, and I told you about the girl I was in love with (who did not love me), and it went something like this: I love her because she likes all of the good things, so if she likes me, then I am a good thing.

Allow me to explain.

I was in the tree all morning with a girl who was my enemy. She had a strained vocabulary, she mispronounced big words right in the middle of a salient point, her tastes were strong yet never justified, her parents were rich—but she listened while I told her about the girl who I loved but did not love me, so now I will tell you something about her.

The tree girl could drink a lot. She just drank and drank. She used to drink so much that she would hurt herself. She would take a swig of vodka, and then all of this energy would build up inside her. Her mouth would open like she was about to explode, or just shriek, but then she’d say something strange, like, “I’m, uh, I’m a tiger,” which would provoke this sort of tiger-esque pounce, over a chair or something, and she would fall and hit herself really hard on the floor. It was always scary when that happened.

Which leads me now to conclude that there are two things in this world: presence and absence, only there is no presence. Take me, for example. I write about music for a small group of individuals whose own idea of music is slowly killing them. It's killing me too, I have no doubt. Why is this so?

1. Music is the whimper of a diseased society, the symptom of an illness. It is not good for you. The moment when a child first sings, or notices in himself an aesthetic enjoyment of raw timbre—this is a disaster.

I have an e-mail inbox with over 100 questions of, basically, "Come on bro, is there any music that you do like?" I can only respond by asking, what does it mean to like music?

Do I listen to music? Yes. Do I find myself playing certain bands or genres more than others? Of course. Do I enjoy the music that I play most frequently?

This question is a trap. Pleasure is complicated, and we don't always know what it is that we're enjoying. I regard music with as much suspicion as alcohol; a man can drink until he forgets who he is, until he is swearing and stumbling out of a bar, until he is vomiting in the street. Does he enjoy this? Fuck yeah. I love getting rip-roaring fucking loaded as much as the next guy, to a point:

I first tasted whiskey on the most magical night of my young life. Everyone was asleep, except for me and the girl I loved (who did not love me). We were huddled next to a fireplace fire, beneath a two-months dead yucca plant, when I took a nip of golden Canadian spirits. And then a second, a third, and the girl I loved (who did not love me) whispered, "I think I am in love with you."

Did I enjoy alcohol then? Yes, yes I did. But when I woke up this morning, alone, teeth covered in moss, empty, afraid of stepping outside into a world that to me feels like a carnival, a terrifying minstrel show, a snuff film that plays on a loop without ever stopping to notice my pain, do I tell myself—"well, I enjoyed that," and feel as loved as I did that night beside the fireplace?

When you are young, alcohol makes you feel something. It lifts you up from the stodgy old world that you had lived in without pause for 10, 12, 15 years. But when its power is used up, it makes you feel nothing. It buries you. This is what music is like.

2. Everyone assumes that they like music. Ask anyone. Go outside and ask the first person you see—do you like music? They will invariably say, "yes." This poses a few problems that I will address as quickly as I can:

2a. People identify themselves through music. "I am Human X, and music is my life." How original, Human X. How interesting.

2b. People identify themselves through music, but insist that they are unique individuals. "I am Human X, the one and only, and there is no Human Y quite like me because I rule."

2c. People become convinced that their music is the right or real music. Whether you listen to Fleet Foxes, J Dilla, Arnold Schoenberg, whether you're into EDM or ambient noise or Motown, there is a world of Human X, Human Y, and Human Z's who believe they've got it right. Bob Dylan is the truth. Or, Motorhead is the truth.

There is no truth, and nobody likes music. People like themselves.

3. A barista walks past, dressed in white tailleur and sipping italian soda from a long, long straw. I love her, of course.

But can my misery be redeemed by love?

I was driving tree girl home from our day in the tree (the day when I told her about the girl I loved who did not love me, five months before the girl I loved who did not love me confessed to loving me in front of a fire while my head floated somewhere else for the very first time), and she played me a song called "With A Girl Like You." It's a well-known pop song from the sixties, written by a band called The Troggs.

This song is about a man who spots a girl at a dance. Instantly he feels that he would like to spend the rest of his life with her. The Troggs went on to influence a whole generation of "garage rock" musicians, a genre that has enjoyed a legacy of alcohol abuse, marijuana and drug usage, and general philandering.

As tree girl and I were driving home, I wondered, What business does a band like The Troggs have writing a song about love? Perhaps everyone is unhappy because they drink too much, get high as often as possible, engage in miserable sexual intercourse, and listen to rock and roll, all in support of a crazy belief that this lifestyle, somehow, will lead us to a dance where we will meet the girl of our dreams.

If you hear this song and feel something, if you apprehend the truth, then you perceive what is currently and will always be absent. Love can be found lots of places. Christmas music is full of love. The Troggs offer love quite readily; it probably even helped them sell a few records. But the moment you feel love in a song, it ceases to exist in the world.

Tree girl liked to drink a lot, and we would sit in her apartment, and she would shoot whiskey and snort adderall and tell me about a song: where she was the first time she heard it, why she found it romantic, who it was that dubbed it onto a mixtape for her and left it in her parents' mailbox in high school (the same guy who kissed her while it was playing, just having walked inside and soaking wet from a rainstorm, when she thought he hadn't loved her the whole time).

But this is not just a problem with love. Or alcohol, or rock and roll. It is anything that you think your music is giving to you—whichever part of your identity it supplies. Music was never supposed to become anyone's life, not anymore than booze or cocaine was supposed to become your life or mine. Every word from your mouth is a shriek, a strange alien sound that should frighten you as much as if a dog stood up and shouted, "Hello," or if your cat started ringing like a telephone. We have taken this sound and tried to make it mean something, and we are all paying dearly.

I don't like music, and I don't like writing about it.

[thisbandsucks]

Testimonials:

Recently, HearNebraska sent a (prospective) intern into the dirty Lincoln streets so she could ask random Husker football fans about local music. To literally no one's surprise, all of the answers were stupid:

Idiots.

Well, no. Not idiots. Because this, of course, is not fair. Can you imagine going to the Slowdown on a night when Beach House is playing, and interviewing the attendees about Taylor Martinez's passing consistency? What if you interviewed the members of Bent Life about the power/loyalty exchanges between Hamas and the Palestinians, and its implications for American intervention in any instance of Israeli conflict?

See: it's just not fair. That's why I went ahead and sampled a much more musically-literate pool of Nebraska natives, with their opinions, thoughts, anecdotes, and candid-camera insights on local music. Here is what they had to say:

[thisbandsucks]

Nebraska

Sometimes, when you work all day playing a "happy" character for the countless loathsome architects of humanity's demise—only to come home to a woman who complains that your beer's too cheap and that you don't sleep with her enough; sometimes, when your bank account is empty and, here she is, lecturing you about Romance; sometimes, when you walk to your shit job in the cold dark morning and sleep in the cold dark night, alone, because she left you for a man who laughs and laughs and laughs; sometimes, when you've swallowed the last remaining drop of your good Catholic whiskey, but cannot—not for all the harems of fucking Mesopotamia—leave your bed to buy more; sometimes, when you're half-sober in bed until the clock's ticks become days, and Forever trades places with Time like Jim Burden and Donovan with Antonia; sometimes, when you lie in a long and lonely stupor, in silence, and you're awake, and you begin to remember a particular day from high school—you were listening while a beautiful girl spoke about the difference between whiskey and vodka, and you had wanted to sleep with this girl for years but you never did (even though you talked on the phone sometimes), and you told her you preferred whiskey (like a man), and you were both outdoors in the daytime, and she was holding a copy of My Antonia, she had it pressed right at the spot where her skirt met her leg—and you're in bed remembering this, and it's quiet, and then you're laughing—out of silence, laughter!—because, how could you be the same person you were three, five, ten years ago, when Desire still burned bright above the imagined time of the false narrative of your life, and now laughing is all you can do to stop yourself from taking arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them: to die, to party, No more. And then you put on Saturn Moth, and all the bad feelings float away.

[thisbandsucks]

I am a villain saving the world from heroes

Here's an experiment: think about your favorite band. Go ahead, try to mentally conjure that one special group who leaves you on the floor, every time. Don't rush, give it a moment.

Seriously, think of a band that you could show to a coworker, or the girl you have a crush on, or a complete stranger: a musical group you could stand behind in any scenario—"This is what music means to me, Dad."

Do you have something in mind?

Okay. Good. Because whoever you are thinking about is a huge asshole.

Yes, virtually every musician is an opportunistic, self-impressing, carpetbagging bastard. It isn't difficult to see why: any two-toothed charlatan with an acoustic guitar and a need to be heard is going to see this need filled, at practically any cost. From Billy Joel to Ty Segall, from the Atmosphere dudes to the Ezra dudes—all of these puppeteers have swindled their way onto a coveted bill, or have fancied themselves "meaningful," or have asked their broke friends to pay a cover/buy "merch" (note: I hate abbreviations, fucking "merch"). On the ladder to success, your favorite musician obsessively fantasized about a universally-worshiped self, and used that fantastical "self" to justify guerilla-style self-commodification (which closely resembles the sinister capitalist system that rock and roll purports to undermine).

Nobody ever "No, Please, I'm not worthy"ed themselves into stardom. Nobody found themselves reluctantly on stage at O'Leavers, much less The Slowdown, much less the CenturyLink Circus Emporium. Even artists who have a hard time dealing with public attention (I'm thinking of Kurt Cobain here) asked for it at some early period.

Is it a crime when approximately 100% of musicians are guilty? No. They aren't bad people. But I want to emphasize that all your heroes, at least as you've imagined them, are false. The "humble hero" is a fairy tale, one of the fables that mothers tell their children when they ask why daddy drinks. George Washington and Cincinnatus are dead. Tilly and the Wall and Plack Blague live.

Earlier I asked the reader to select a favorite band, and that's not unusual. It's actually a pretty common inquiry—"What's your favorite band?"

Much less common: someone responding with, "Mitch Gettman."

If you don't know (and you probably don't), Mitch is an up-and-comer in the burgeoning Omaha music scene. Right now you may be confused, mostly because "up-and-comer" is a term I reserve for any miscreant who makes me want to buttchug Rumple Minze through a dildo-fitted bendy straw. But in Mitch's case, "up-and-comer" is far less ambivalent—there is not the furious "hatred" of the "butt" "penetration" tempered by the soothing "love" of the "Rumple" "Minze." Instead, I mean that Mitch is young, talented, attractive, and successful. At least for now.

Why, exactly, is Mitch an up-and-comer? Mitch, himself, may be the only man who knows. He eruditely apprises his fans:

After reading this biography, we can only wonder 1 (one) of 2 (two) things:

(1 of 2): When asked about a favorite band, why did we (the droning horde) not shout in unison, "Mitch Gettman! Oh merciful heavens!"

I mean, the "blossoming soul" of this "talented young man" is already drawing "flattering comparisons." Why isn't his name first to fly from our tongues?

or

(2 of 2): If someone was going to self-scribe a blurb and lie, why would he do such a shitty job?

My wonderment centers upon the latter. Blurb accretion is a key component to any hero's resume, and Mitch made a few obvious mistakes. It's not a problem with what his blurb says as much as what it doesn't say. If you'll allow me to translate:

We Are the Mad Ones by Mitch Gettman

For your sake and mine, I won't wax critical on "We are the Mad Ones." If you listen to Mitch's music, the overwhelming mediocrity speaks for itself. Instead, you should notice how Mitch plays the perfect role of the perfect heroic musician.

Album Title: Mitch borrows his underground credibility via an allusion to Jack Kerouac's beatnik novel, On the Road. "We are the Mad Ones" references this novel's most famous quotation, which can be found on Mitch's bandcamp page:

Full disclosure: this has long been on my short list of "worst quotes of all time." Add Mitch to the bottomless sea of highschool cheerleaders, S&M goths, and computer programming Dads who write this on page #1 of their diary. Can everyone be held accountable to this exhausting standard of being interesting all the time? Sure, but only until they're found dead, facedown in a bowl of cocaine at age 34. I'll stick to being boring.

What happens when the dictum, "never say a commonplace thing," becomes, itself, commonplace? Mitch Gettman happens. Kerouac worshiped the unstable twists of a world begging for wine and nodding its head to the tune of some mad bop prosody. Mitch Gettman is adult alternative, for kids.

This is the sonic equivalent of renaming WalMart, "Local Store," or renaming The Hunger Games, "Ulysses." In fact, I'm re-naming my blog, "Shakespeare," because a turd by any other name will still smell like shit.

The Chicago sessions: much like his favorite author, Gettman recently took to the road, and moved to Chicago, Illinois (which is a small Hawaiian island where Barack Hussein Obama studied terrorism). This makes sense. A hero needs to tread new ground, conquer new lands. But his absence weighed sorely on all members of the Omaha music scene. The loss of his "blossoming soul," with its "knack for creating memorable and complete musical arrangements," was acutely felt by me, especially—which is why a smile spread across my face when, a few months later—the longest months of my life—the Omaha music scene was electrified by this story, which broke on the front page of the World-Herald:

There is little doubt that hero Gettman (who "has the uncanny ability to explore dynamics, feelings and music from across the spectrum, while still creating a complete album with purpose") destroyed the Chicago music scene, and, Mission Accomplished, returned to his homeland for excessive imbibing, decadence, and fornication.

I know I'm a few months late, but, from all of us here at This Band Sucks, we'd like to officially say, "Welcome back, Mitch!" We didn't even notice you were gone.

Band Blurb/Biography Grades: after examining Mitch's band biography, I began to wonder how other bands portray themselves for their fans. I've compiled a few blurbs here, with the names excluded. See if you can guess who the band is by their intimate, binding, one-to-one descriptions:

Band: Universe Contest, from Lincoln.

Blurb Grade: B+

Notice how Universe Contest references specific bands (MGMT, Modest Mouse), so readers know they don't sound like nothing. They inform us that they're growing in regional popularity, which means they're not popular, but not unpopular—scoring some serious honesty points here, dudes! They've been called "a bunch of crazy guys," which kind of scared me at first (I am afraid of "crazy" people, because they commit rapes!), but how can I blame them? After all, rock-and-roll ain't no walk in the park: no pussies allowed. Let's get crazy. Good job, guys!

Band: UUVVWWZ, from Lincoln.

Blurb Grade: D-

I don't understand. I referred to the band name, but it was just a bunch of letters. Very confusing. Perhaps more words (nouns, verbs, adjectives) could improve this biography. Good luck, guys!

Band: Dojorok, from Omaha.

Blurb Grade: A

Dojorok does something interesting here, by quoting someone else. This way the source is definitely fair and balanced, even if it's vague and uninformative. I love DJ's! Good job, Dojorok!

Band: Feeder/Gainer, from Lincoln.

Blurb Grade: D

This blurb really frightened me. Instead of telling me about the band, it gave me the feeling that I will die unremembered, and that everything I care about will some day turn to dust. Jeez. Maybe you could lighten up. People like to feel happy, not lonely. Isn't that the point of music, to bring people joy? Good luck, guys!

Band: Skypooper, from Omaha.

Blurb Grade: C+

This blurb is pretty good, but they frequently misspell "Skypooper" as "Skypiper." Not trying to nitpick, but attention to detail is important. Also, they say they "blossomed." I'm a little confused. I thought only flowers could "blossom." Perhaps consult a biology textbook? Good luck, guys!

Band: Nasty Asshole 2, from Lincoln.

Blurb Grade: A-

This blurb is simple and to the point. I really like the part where it says, "Nasty Assshole 2 is Lincoln Nebraska's 'pure', 'no frills' Grindcore, exclusively!" Perhaps you could expand on this? Also, I'm no grammarian, but I think there should be a comma between "Lincoln" and "Nebraska." And the comma after "pure" should go inside the quotations. And, is Grindcore a proper noun? I'm pretty sure you're only supposed to capitalize proper nouns. Good job, guys!

Band: Little Brazil, from Omaha.

Blurb Grade: C-

This blurb is supposed to be about Little Brazil, but the entire first half is spent re-hashing the "good old days" in highschool bands. Stop living in the past. Besides, some people may think you still want to sleep with highschool girls, which is usually illegal. I wouldn't ditch your pretty boy image for a bad boy/pedophile image just yet. Good luck, guys!

Band: Noah's Ark Was A Spaceship, from Omaha.

Blurb Grade: F

Come on, guys. You didn't even write anything here. How am I supposed to know if your band is any good if I haven't read how intricate and sophisticated your arrangements are, or which regionally somewhat-well-known bands you have played with? I don't mean to be rude, but I think you're better than this. Hope this feedback helps. Good luck, guys!

Band: Mitch Gettman, from Chicago.

Blurb Grade: A+++

This is a massive improvement from the first two paragraphs of Mitch's band blurb, which were vague and, frankly, dishonest. Unlike his prior third-person disinterestedness, this paragraph allow me to truly feel the intensity with which Mitch loves himself. For these few words I, like Mitch, am convinced that he is God. We love you Mitch! Congratulations! We're convinced. You win.

You are my hero—the best musician, ever.

[thisbandsucks]

What is the Castrated Omaha Sound?

Haven't updated for a while, and perhaps I won't for a stretch here to come (perhaps I'll update tomorrow; fuck it). Use your leisure time to listen to Field Club's new album, "Bones," a raggedy piece of horse shit not worth the effort it is taking me to type upon my cum-laden keyboard:

Bones EP by Field Club

Field Club is not just an increasingly redneck neighborhood in the vicinity of a fancy swimming pool + golf course, only a mile south of Omaha's thriving midtown region. It is also a band that commits crimes of impotence.

In the musical justice system, impotence-based crimes are considered especially heinous. In the city of Omaha, the dedicated bands that commit these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the "Castrated Omaha Sound." This is their story:

Omaha wasn't always a safe place to start a band. A long, long time ago, shit went down almost every other day. First it was Bright Eyes, and then the Faint, and then Cursive. Nobody knew when fame might strike. One minute you're pumping gas outside the Amaco on 52nd, and all of a sudden you're playing the Late Show with David Letterman.

As we might expect, this caused a stir. And the stir—well, the stir caused a vibe. A vibe which subsequently gave way to a buzz. Before long, everyone was blasting off via "Hey, I could be the next famous Omahan!"-mania. What ensued from this craze was, quite frankly, disgusting: from Son Ambulance/Tilly and the Wall, to Its True/Eagle Seagull, to Orion Walsh/Eli Mardock. Have you heard of the ex-Faint spinoff, Depressed Buttons? If I was that far away from the glory days, I would be "depressed" too.

Each step down the genealogical ladder represents a slightly feebler misreading of the generation that came before. Say what you will about Conor (I, personally, have not reached a shortage of things to say on this matter), but his earlier work had an irreverential bite to it. Field Club, on the other hand, should change their name to "Gretna," because that's how dangerous they are.

So what? It's only our history. These are just the bands that we, indeed, celebrate. Since the zenith of the "Omaha Sound," our singer-songwriterly, or emotional, or just plain-old "weak" musical projects have shared a unique foundation of legitimacy, which extends from the real history of Saddle Creek. If you stand on a dimly lit stage, open your stupid mouth, pluck your overpriced guitar, and make schoolgirl diary entries come of your pre-maturely birthed head, you are simply in good company. This is our sound, the Omaha Sound. This is our national decor, vogue, a la mode.

I hear that Simon Joyner once operated his own label, entitled "Sing, Eunuchs." How very appropriate.

Our entire history converges upon this one image, that of the Singing Eunuch. It has become the inescapable context for Omaha bands (our Contextual Doom, if you will). Let me explain:

I was at a bar two nights ago. I was drinking, heavily (as if there were any doubt). I was engaged in an intimate conversation with a dude who was, as they say, about three sheets to the hospital. He mentioned a local band—let's call them "The Flaccid Party." With regard to The Flaccid Party's lead vocalist, my poorly misguided beer-drinking companion utilized the following description: "some Desaparecidos shit."

Hey, I hardly ever listen to The Flaccid Party. So, are the vocals any good? I don't care two ways from Thursday. But they sure as shit do not sound like Desaparecidos.

On the other hand, can I blame my hop-swizzled guzzle buddy for mis-applying the designation, "some Desaparecidos shit?" Of course not. This is the Omaha lexicon, the only language we have for dealing with the "Other." My foam-mustache'd binge partner might as well have said Hominoid or Vicars sound like "some Desaparecidos shit." In fact, it can be said no other way. (are Vicars/Hominoid any good? I don't care four ways from fucking Saturday, but they don't sound like Desaparecidos)

Occasionally other bands make a distinctive, hard-earned mark on the national scene. The Show is the Rainbow did this, all the while projecting a middle finger in the face of Saddle Creek (now he is Touch People, which is a highfalutin anomaly, "Magma meets Daft Punk"—but, lo!, I doth eulogize too much).

There was the Jay Reatard coattail crew (Brimstone Howl, Digital Leather, Box Elders). Are these bands any good? I don't care six ways from taking back Sunday. But I can guarantee you that, while Omaha's very particular fucking woes spread the globe, these bands had to face the shame of stopping mid-tour at record stores and/or bars where gap-toothed townies inevitably asked, "Oh so you like Saddle Creek Records?"

And when these bands died, it was a death void of history. Or when they do die, it will be with no lineage. No sound, no fury. (perhaps, while I speak, "the future" is waiting to fuck me good. You know, prove me wrong. Heck, I hope so!)

In short, whether you want to be or not, you are a child of the Singing Eunuch. Icky Blossoms is inextricably tied to The Faint. Louder bands like The Flaccid Party are linked (perhaps subliminally, sometimes unnoticably) with, for example, Desaparecidos. Lightning Bug is like Cursive. You get the idea.

(can we locate Conchance in this lexicon? Probably. How about 311? Or the Omaha Symphony? Well, probably not. We're only discussing acts of local material culture)

Wouldn't it be interesting to see how Rainy Roads Records, or Axidentuhl Therapy, or Make Believe Studios, or, shit, even Slumber Party Records were received in a state ungrounded by Saddle Creek, where each musical act floated in a chaotic reality-sphere of "No one is telling me what to do!"-ness. Fuck, the very thought makes my mouth water. I have always thought I'd rather be blind, fat, and naked, lost in a maze, than happy and wholesome on a conveyor belt in Tim Kasher's allegorical intestinal tract.

Until this moment of post-apocalyptic jouissance arrives, we are left with the mighty Field Club. Here is my assessment:

Field Club is the kind of music that makes me want to go out into this big, wide world of ours and refill my xanax prescription. As I sit here in public, with my headphones on, sipping coffee surreptitiously mixed with whiskey, I feel the urge to shout, "Hurry the fuck up!"

But I suppose if they played these songs too fast you might miss out on the genius, heart-fondling lyrics:

"...as the sun dies, the heart goes white..."

"The big city / put a dot on the map / a place close enough to the place that reminds me of the past."

"I said I want you to go / but I don't, no I don't / I said I want you to go / but I don't, no I don't"

"you are the rock / you are the bottom of the sea / I am above / floating on top of your dreams"

Typically I hate people who try to seek "value," or "meaning" in lyrics, especially ones that took as much effort to fart out as "...as the sun dies, the heart goes white," but these particular ditties are perfect examples of how the Castrated Omaha Sound operates. "The rock at the bottom of the sea?" "Floating on top of your dreams?" I have never heard such pioneering lyricism! The walls in my simple head have been shaken asunder—the "way of the world" itself has been ruptured!

...not.

Does Field Club sound like the self-replicating nucleic tri-peptide musketeer(s), BrightEyesFaintCursive? Please.

But they are safe, docile—Marx would invoke the status quo; Homer would invoke the muses; I invoke a swollen pair of testicles, freshly cut from the nascent eunuch. Hearnebraska writes that Field Club comprises the "best features" of the "indie-pop-rock" genre: "intelligence, melody and fortitude."

All I hear is indigence, mediocrity, and fartitude. It is worrisome to think that vaguely personal (i.e. irrelevant) and systematically imagistic (i.e. stupid) lyrics like, "you are the rock at the bottom of the sea / I am above floating on top of your dreams" are a baseline of "intelligence." First of all—intelligence is for college professors and biochemists. Is Field Club a serious student of music? Music theory? History? (even Conor Oberst's soggy graham-cracker jams only acheived "furiously clever," at best) How does a band choose one shitty, essentially meaningless lyric over the next? Is lead vocalist Andrea Purdy simply decoding the messages in the brown smears on her toilet paper? There is no "intelligence," or even human urgency in these songs. They don't do anything, or create anything, or say anything, except: "I am a song. I am a song. I am a song." Field Club is the sonic equivalent of loud silence; but make no mistake—these tracks are recorded and presented to us in a way that lets us know, doubtlessly, Field Club takes themselves very seriously. Which should be embarrassing, if they ever match up against a band with talent. (about 1/69th the talent of, for example, Conduits, but with all the annoying internet presence)

These bands exist to fill some bourgeois non-space. People who have the time to listen to this music are Republicans. People whose emotional pool is so shallow that it can be filled by a few connotative words and some guitar blips are culture-heavy robots. If words like, "as the sun dies, the heart goes white" have profound meaning for you, then you have deified your own life, and it all just makes me crave beer. I crave beer.

Bands that constitute the most current wave of the Castrated Omaha Sound include, but are not limited to: Betsy Wells, In Love, Conduits*, Skypiper, Field Club*, Icky Blossoms*, Blue Bird, Great American Desert, Orion Walsh, Eli Mardock, Sun Settings, Capgun Coup, Bandit Sound, Millions of Boys, Mynabirds*, Good Show Great Show, Amy Schmidt*, Little Brazil, and I apologize to those soft packets of goo that I've left out.

* = denotes a band with one (or more) megababe(s)

[thisbandsucks]

Statement of Purpose

The Poverty of Local Criticism: It has become our opinion that certain proponents of Nebraska’s local musical talent are not doing their own community any favors. There is too much positivity, and our current amalgamation of writerly, pat-you-on-the-back outlets have been encouraging our local talent to death. Our happy “artists” have soaked up too much critical sunshine, just before being over-watered with niceties. Of course, we understand that in order to foster musical growth, we need to give bands encouragement. If our “artists” cannot always headline international tours, the least we can do is offer them an internationally competitive infrastructure for musical criticism, literature, photography, iconography, etc. And, we admit, there are a number of excellent regional projects, which are supported by an even larger number of excellent, hard-working individuals. Yet there are far too many “artists” who think we should love their music simply because, well, somebody made it. Meanwhile our attention spans are shrinking. We do not have time to hear, memorize, internalize, and then worship every song lyric ever written. We do not accept that everyone who plays music is a musician or, even worse, a prophet. Maybe some of us are still mesmerized by the cult of Conor Oberst, and by its altars of musical neo-New Critical, part-in-(w)hole-in-part lyrico-spiritualism. If this cult exists, we were never members. Nebraska has no critics, only advocates. For too long we have believed that killing off one member of the crew will sink the entire ship. But we have spent ages drifting at sea. The sailors have resorted to catching mice and eating sawdust. We are not all in this together. The time has come to throw a few of the do-nothings overboard. If we are a community in anything, it is in dying. Our time is limited and valuable. We, then, will attempt to save you the mistake of listening to a few shitty bands, so you might live long enough to find better ones.