Premature death’s a funny thing, especially if it’s exaggerated. So, Pretty Boy Thorson And The Falling Angels didn’t actually die. A couple of them went off into relationship cocoons that transformed into butterflies that flew back to Minneapolis. But in that pupal stage of becoming pretty in other states, Jesse Thorson was busy gettin’ himself a little lady, took up a deep interest in ducks and tractors, and formed a new band. “So, Todd ‘you still make that little zine?’ Taylor, what you’re saying is that Jesse Thorson is now in two bands?” No. He’s in four. “Well, what’s the difference?” Does it really matter? Actually. A bit. Flip the cards over one after another: Jesse dances in this band since he isn’t tethered by a guitar. Saw him throw up twice in one day—two sets five or six hours apart. Meat. Potatoes. Homemade pizza. Your drugs are mine. Midwest. Bad decisions as rusted crowns. Large bellies as fulcrum points to not passing out. Happy misery. Miserable happiness. Now, debuting ‘lil happiness. Long drives on questionable tires. Mikey Erg. Harpoons of self-doubt. Paddy Costello. Johnny Cellphone. DaveStrait. Super. Group. Of dudes. Cock Sparrer as American, country-fringed, and snow-tough. Or Johnny Cougar playing Defiance songs. And really great enunciation. This isn’t a diss: this record’s like an invisible electric dog fence. I’ve been hearing Jesse sing these songs for years—you can see the well-worn tracks in the lawn—but it’s always a pleasure to watch him catch those frisbees, bring them back, then pee on your leg for your time. Guess what? Excellent record. PS: I’m offering ten dollars for anyone to send me a copy of Jesse’s emo zine that he’s Stalined.
–todd (Kiss Of Death)