Sep 07, 2010

I’ll fully admit that I live in a music bunker. I’m not being a dick when I say I have no opinion about, say, today, Lady Gaga. It’s just that I don’t care, like I don’t care about fast food chains or I don’t care about Fox News. That shit’s ninety-nine percent designed to accelerate your death through constant radiation. Paradoxically, by being everywhere, these systems are designed to keep everyone isolated and alone. I hate the systems of control so much that I don’t even know the current players. So, pardon me if I’m all pissy about the music company that’s attached to a multinational that’s currently trying to privatize the rain that’s falling down on Bolivia and don’t know a current hit or artist. But by not being “plugged in” to a 24/7 influx of distractions, I can sit in my room—most often by myself—and listen to records and read books. If I like the records—this one’s fuckin’ great—chances are I’ll go see them if they come through town. Chances are I’ll be, “Oh, fuck, I know that dude. He was the bassist in the Carrie Nations.” Chances are, if we talk, I’ll learn a bit about Cleveland, Mississippi, write down where the best BBQ is in the area. The Hot New Mexicans play ragged, melodic, approachable DIY punk that reminds me of scuffed floors, long drives, cracked-open beers, proportionately incorrect tattoos of bands from the ‘90s, cracking-open-the-sky sunsets, secrets and stains rolled up in frayed carpets, hairy dogpiles, body odor, and the really beautiful parts to Tortilla Flats. Like when the house burns down and no one gets too mad because it’s just a house and not the people inside of it.

 –todd (Houseplant, / Recess,