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ISSUE 39:

I'D LIKE TO TEACH THE WORLD TO SING SO LISTENING TO ALL THESE CDS WOULDN'T SUCK SO MUCH

If you're cranking The Soundtrack to my Life Volume 147 while dustbusting your CD collection and wine rack, you know life took a turn and you missed the exit. Dancing to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock 'n' Roll" in your whitey-tighties whenever it comes on your favorite classic rock station is not expressing your wild side, it's liable to pull a muscle your chiropractor will spend weeks trying to fix.
Scott Hefflon, "Prelude to a Lick"

The Butthole Surfers' monotonously successful "Loser"/"88 Lines About 44 Women" rip-off, "Pepper," got played and was considered a "hit single." Shit, I didn't see that comin' back when they were pissin' in whiffle-ball bats.
Jon Sarre, "Sarre-Chasm: A Letter to My Local Radio Programmer"

What... occurs inside of us when our hearts get broken? Is it something that can be quantitatively measured? Does an actual biological event occur? Some chemical reaction? An anatomical equation? ...You just know, from the sensation alone, which is like nothing else in the world. It feels as if the universe took a deep, final breath, shuddered, and collapsed around you, leaving nothing but an infinite black hole in the center of your being. It's like God swelled up inside you, beamed His Almighty brightest for one indescribably gorgeous second, and just curled up and died in your stomach.
Chris Adams, "Blood on the Tracks of My Tears on My Pillow"

The IMPACTLESS summer grows more and more oppressive... Not wanting my roommates to see me like this, I take a shuttle to New York and then hop a cab to Brooklyn where I drink bottom-rack tequila and warm Bud Light for two days in this Polish dive, listening to Polka and Billy Joel's greatest hits. Sobbing like a baby. Mourning the death of summer IMPACT. For real. The old men next to me who work in the pillow factory next door cry, too. They don't even speak English, but there's something between us. Anyone who has suffered the stresses of the Eastern Bloc has some idea what I'm going through.
Adam Haynes, "Impact is Saved by Paranoia After a Walk Through Hell"

Have we run out of virtuous, upstanding people to make movies about?
William Ham,The People vs. Larry Flynt and Private Parts

This collection is emotional, ratty-edged, coffee-ringed and cat-crushed, loved and mutilated. The music circles through and rolls back, like a many-layered Mobius strip. Whether you see the image embedded in the splattered mess or just the bloody pulp, these songs are bound to put a Clorox-resistant stain on the wall of clean, pop sanity.
Jamie Kiffel, the Kelley Deal 6000

What's the deal with hidden tracks anyway? ...Okay, if it's a really funny improvisational ditty, or a funky jam that happened spontaneously during recording, yeah, give the kids something to laugh at - a window into the band. But if it's just another song, call it number 15.
Barbara Restaino, Vaporhead

Ever get frustrated with your life? You know, all the hot chicks keep blowing you off and that jerk at the 7-Eleven just cut up your fake ID... Maybe you should start a band. That new Bosstones song is pretty cool and the Suicide Machines sure look like they get lots of chicks. You can't play guitar all that well, but what the hell? Now if you could just convince some of those marching band guys who play those horn things to join your new ska/punk band, you'd kick ass! Well, don't bother, because Buck-O-Nine already beat you to it.
Margo Tiffen, Buck-O-Nine

(No) thanks to Alanis and Jewel, ambiguity's in the dumpster with last month's Tampax. You gotta be either an avenging, humorless Lolita getting your ass-length tresses in a tangle over some creep who blew you off after you blew him, or a folk-strummin' puddle of hippie-chick homilies if you wanna shift unit one these days... Estrogenera-tion X has finally commandeered the main stage, and I guess it'd be sexist of me to assume that, unlike the men, they'd avoid typecasting themselves to succeed, but it still saddens me to witness such freshly-pioneered territory get plowed smooth so quickly. Sorry to impose my liberal-media bleeding-heart on you, ladies; if you need a hand clambering down off that pedestal, let me know.
Nik Rainey, Geraldine Fibbers

Which do you think is really going to make a person "feel you from the inside," a whispering, mid-tempo pop hit by a recluse who poses for Details in a bathrobe petting a dog, or a roaring metal bootleg where everything is cranked to 11 and the singer, Lawless by name, wears a buzzsaw cod piece and more metal trinketry/ammunition than Rambo and the Road Warrior combined?
Chaz Thorndike, W.A.S.P.

The reason I was so driven to sit in the park with 250,000 honky rednecks, suits, and frat boys was because the Garth Brooks media machine had succeeded in raising this free concert to the level of an historical event... For months in advance, New York had been plastered with coy "Garth Live" advertisements on the subways, in Times Square, and in all the local newspapers. And with the city of New York eager to show the world that people can congregate in Central Park without being stabbed, raped, or otherwise violated (c'mon, it's an election year), the city was reduced to a marketing tool to promote Garth's new album and his steadily declining career. Missing this spectacle would be like being the party-pooper at the Jonestown Kool-Aid love-in.
Aaron Lazenby, Garth Brooks in Central Park

"...Worked my way up through the ranks and was this close to bein' a made man when I realized this Syndicate only distributed comic strips and advice columns to daily newspapers and had very little to do with organized crime. Whacked all those people for nothin'."
William Ham, "The Culture Bunker: Two Thumbs Up (part two): Electric Boogaloo"

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." Romans 2:22 (To which Toddman sez: "Dear Brother, you'll just have to make room for another juror.")
Todd Brendan Fahey, "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad"

There's a fuckload of weak garbage out there, a giant goddamned ocean full of it that the atmosphere cannot sustain. Natural selection at work: that's why record companies are downsizing and folding left and right, that's why this magazine enters every month unsure of its future, that may even be why so many rock stars are killing themselves. Some of you have to go. Those that remain will be the ones that are either slick and manipulative enough to sleaze their way into solvency or those whose spirit and intent are so pure and decent that they can't be kept down.
William Ham, "High Dudgeon and Low Self-Esteem"

The success of (pasty-faced Limey whiner Jordan Whimsical's) first album (Handful of Swallow) on London's progressive Poofter label would seem to suggest that he is bound to take over the temporary title of "King of the Tortured Teenage Vegan Crooners" from the BIG M himself. But then again, there were those of us who never bought Morrissey and all his "I'm a celibate, asexual vegetarian" horseshit all those years ago. After all, who didn't secretly know that, while earnest little 16 year olds everywhere were planning their group suicides to the lush strains of "There is a Light That Never Goes Out," Mr. Moaner himself was probably in the south of France - sprawled naked across a bearskin rug while some naked 15 year old Algerian boy swabbed up chicken gravy from his scrawny body with balled-up slices of roast beef? Who didn't know that?
Garrick H.S. Brown, "The Internationale Music Report"  


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