It was then that I looked around, and said: "What have I got?"
A raspy voice! Really loud and screeching, celebrating--what? A well-written essay, a swimming day, a sidewalk well-shoveled, a car belatedly disinterred? What then--this is the question. "Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ."
Joyce.
"It wasn't always this way...it wasn't always this way. It wasn't always this way...
"You laid there on that sidewalk, you laid there on that sidewalk. You laid there on that sidewalk..."
--Unsane.
Today I went ahead and drummed that infernally repeating young-punk beat that sounds quite sad when put with those awful vocals, despairing and stabbed through with problems the singer has created for himself: the blood on the sidewalk, the fumes wafting about his head! This, a song by Unsane, and the one that follows it--are both as one to me. Nothing is more miserable, this delightful pair of dirges. I try to live by them, as in, capturing the agony of adolescence in that old house way, that flavor a thousand times removed from traditional teen angst, rendered typically by teeny-bopper fluff. No! This is Poltergeist with better production.
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