swooning in my swivel chair

Tuesday:
Ben Marcus, The Flame Alphabet
Joy Division, Unknown Pleasures
The Smiths, Complete

I tried to dart out to go get my haircut at lunch but discovered the entire Smiths catalog is now on Spoitfy and was thus transfixed, swooning in my swivel chair before my little computer speakers. There are among you young'uns and old'uns that scoff, deeming the Smiths to be pussy music or as one friend on Facebook declared "toxic", and maybe. The Smiths make such a case, but, at this moment, kindly and quietly take your dullard's scorn elsewhere before I'm forced to slit a wrist at you. I JUST WANT TO SEE PEOPLE AND I WANT TO SEE LIFE, OKAY??!! (shrieks; runs off)



OK, Strangeways, Here We Come breaks the spell just like it did in 1987. After The Queen is Dead, there was, for me, no new territory across which to sullenly slouch and longingly gaze, at least until Morrissey butched up for Kill Uncle in '92. It was on that album's tour I saw him have a minor tantrum in a gold lamé suit amid piles of tattered gladiolas at the State Palace Theatre in New Orleans and finally knew what it meant to be in the presence of star power.

Wednesday:
Of Monsters and Men, My Head Is An Animal
Vincent Gallo, When
Nik Bärtsch's Mobile, Ritual Groove Music
Claus Boesser-Ferrari, Marc Ribot and Fred Frith, How We Became Americans
John Coltrane, Giant Steps
Sonny Landreth, The Road We're On

Still no haircut.