Category Archives: INTERVIEWS

A Conversation With The Cars’ Ric Ocasek


With his lean frame and leaner musicality, Ric Ocasek led the Cars through the testiest, most experimental but hit-making music the new wave would know. Six sharp, strange, electronically seduced albums—The Cars (1978), Candy-O(1979), Panorama (1980), Shake It Up (1981), Heartbeat City (1984) and Door To Door (1987) —and a handful of deceptively simplistic smash singles (“My Best Friend’s Girl,” “Let’s Go,” “Good Times Roll,” “Drive”) turned the Boston band into superstars, and its other lead singer—the late Ben Orr—into a heartthrob. The Cars splintered upon Orr’s passing. Ocasek made a name for himself as a solo artist and, more so, a top-tier producer for Weezer, Guided By Voices, Le Tigre, Iggy Pop and Alan Vega, among others, before re-teaming with the Cars for 2011’s Move Like This. Now, Rhino has released a remastered boxed set of the band’s first decade.

Before we talk about the Cars, let’s chat production work: You did the Cribs last year and Weezer’s album the year before that. What does it take for an act to pique your interest?
First, I don’t want a band who is run-of-the-mill. Solid lyrics are important as a general attribute that a band must have. I feel like they have to have their own sound intact, because I’m not going to be there to change them. I’m someone who’ll be there to make sure that they sound stellar. Because, hopefully, I like the band, as someone that I would listen to.

Anyone out there now, whose work you’ve heard, you’d like to get your hands on?
Yeah, actually. There are a few acts out there whose sounds I love. Lana Del Rey, for instance. I love her soul. There are others—I don’t actually go out and look. I did before go after bands, more than I do now. If they’re someone not four or five albums deep, I’d find out about them. I like doing first albums. They’re the most exciting for any band. Making a new band feel comfortable is essential, speaking as a band member myself. That said, doing Weezer’s 2014 album—I love Rivers’ songwriting and would work with them any time.

That’s interesting that you’d equate yourself with being a band member. Why didn’t you ever produce the Cars? I’ll guess that you didn’t want the job.
I kinda didn’t. I mean, they were doing all my songs. I wanted to have an outside vision …

A distance?
Yes. Then again, I got the same producer for nearly all of the Cars’ albums—Roy Thomas Baker—save for the one Mutt Lange did. It’s hard to put yourself in the writing and performing position when you also have to produce.

Conflicting stories abound. Did the label get Baker for you? There was certainly the connection between Elektra and Queen—they couldn’t have wanted that sound for you?
Tony Visconti was in the mix, too. Roy was suggested by Elektra. I had never made an album in my life. Any suggestion was amazing, but Roy was funny. He came to one of our gigs at some high school in Worcester, Mass., him and 12 people during a blizzard. He was thoroughly into the idea of producing us but wanted to do it in England. That was great— we’d never been there, or anywhere.

The label did you a solid.
They did. Labels being involved with an artist didn’t have to be a bad thing. Plus, Roy taught me a lot about handling band personalities. He was an electronics whiz, a sound guy with a classical background for mic-ing the room’s sound. He got harmony. And he took things in stride; a very upbeat, elegant man. Spontaneous, too.

Having to remaster a Cars album seems redundant since all of yours were sleek and maximal. School me.
You’re right. It’s funny. All the Cars records sound beautiful; have the same polish as the album before. The box set doesn’t change anything. Remastering presents a different premise: leveling things out, propelling a bass line. Roy used to say, “If you want more bass, turn up the knob on your stereo at home.”

Who did you find inspirational in terms of lyrics? I know you were a big Beat Gen fan, and I get the Burroughs in you.
Dylan was my favorite. My second favorite was Lou Reed. I liked the early folk people of the ‘60s that I came up with; psychedelia, too. The poetry—I went toward City Lights hard. I did Richard Brautigan and Baudelaire. The Beats’ flowery words and images: so wonderful.

What would you say, thinking back, was Ben Orr’s strong suit, the thing that bonded you guys?
I met Ben in 1968. I had a band in Columbus, Ohio, called, of all things, ID Nirvana, very era appropriate—and he came to see us. He told me he could sing, came to my house and sang the Beatles’ “Yesterday” in the sweetest voice I ever heard. Next day, he joined that band and every band I had up to and through to the Cars. He was my best friend, we hung out together, lived across the street from each other. We were practically married. He had great ears. I adored his personality and that voice of his—it was so much better than mine. That’s why I picked some of the quirkier Cars songs to sing.

I’ve spoken with you previously, and never caught such genuine emotion as I am here. Going through the collection—did anything make you choke up?
I loved Ben Orr. Certainly some of the songs got me. I forgot some of them were even there. It was really nice. I even found some tapes of just Ben and me. That made me very sentimental.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With Violent Femmes’ Gordon Gano


With the 2015 EP Happy New Year and 2016 album We Can Do Anything, Violent Femmes—the toast of Milwaukee, nervous and literate roots-punk, and frat boy fans of “Blister In The Sun”—made their first new music in 15-plus years, a minor miracle considering the dysfunctional tension between singer/guitarist/songwriter Gordon Gano and bassist/cofounder Brian Ritchie. Then again, since their eponymous 1983 debut, Gano and Ritchie never seemed like cuddly bonded types. “That wasn’t us,” says Gano of a distance that gives Femmes songs old and new (“Memory,” “Good At/For Nothing”) their poignancy.

—A.D. Amorosi

Squash or confirm—that yours and Brian’s first falling out …
That is interesting. I never really thought about what the exact falling out was, and when it was. The very fi rst thing was an illegal activity, so I can talk about not talking about it.

Did Brian really sue you about using “Blister In The Sun” for a Wendy’s commercial?
He did, but that was not the only thing that he ever sued me about or even the prime motivation for that suit.

How do you guys go forward knowing that all this litigation has gone on between you?
The courts eventually threw it out without prejudice because it was all that crazy. We didn’t equally sue each other. It’s not as big of a thing as it might seem, because it’s all done. And, really, it’s always been about the music, and the music has a unique sound, and that happens when he and I get together and have a kind of excitement. It’s something we’ve made a good living from, which has allowed us other things and other music. I can’t speak for him, but I think that he’d agree. It’s fun, sounds good and people love it.

So, the music is the only connection.
Yes. When we try to talk about anything, it doesn’t work. We’ve tried having business meetings and the end result was eight hours and no agreements. We found a way to make it work—we stopped having meetings. We completely and utterly disagree with each other. Everything goes through a manager who talks with us individually. The prime thing is not verbal, not philosophical, not analytical. Just do it. That’s how we make new music—which just happens to sound great.

I didn’t think that you guys were all warm and cozy, but that’s what makes your music intriguing.
There’s no internal turmoil. Some of the things that happened surprised me in a business sense, but not personally. We never had a friendship. We had a relationship through the music. How could you go? It’s easy, because it’s not as if a friend did something bad. Of course, he doesn’t see any of this that way.

Was new music a stipulation of getting back together? I’m not certain how I feel about bands that reunite just to play old material.
Why? I think just that is very good. People can make more money than they once did from their careers, which is good for them and their families. People want to hear the hits, what they grew up with. It’s positive for everyone. Brian, though, believes that a real group should be making new music. That said, at one point, he wouldn’t record any new songs that I wrote for years. I even offered to write with him, split 50/50. Didn’t happen. Now, through our new manager, we found a way to talk to each other in separate rooms. Actually, we live in different parts of the Earth, but I just like the imagery of separate rooms. That’s when the New Year’s Day EP was recorded, although even that had its disagreements. “What microphone? Where do you put it?” I’m not kidding. I suggested we do them a bunch of di erent ways … the most prevalent being where we learn them and just do them at the same time. That’s one thing—we’re very quick together. He knows what to play as he’s hearing them for the first time.

Why didn’t you go further with the Mercy Seat, your gospel/punk act?
That’s nice. There’s a second Mercy Seat record, too, though I have no idea what happened to it. I don’t know where the masters are. That’s when the first real problems with Violent Femmes set in.

When you finally had your one real shot to go solo with Hitting The Ground, you brought in mostly other people to sing your songs—Lou Reed, John Cale. Why?
Yeah, that never really occurred to me until I had a friend tell me, sarcastically, after it came out, “Great job. Like, you’re hardly on the album.” I just never thought of it.

I heard Reed changed some of your lyrics. Was that weird?
No, that was incredible. He had the song for a while, and I never knew if he was ever going to get around to touching it, then one day he called for me to come pick it up; he had fi nished it. As I walked in, he looked at me and said, “I took the liberty of changing some of your lyrics.” It surprised me, but he made it better; made it more him and just made it edgier, with more of a bite. He even changed the structure of the song, where the next line would come in. Absolutely brilliant.

OK, back to the Femmes’ new record. Are you writing songs in the same fashion you once did?
It’s more than similar—it’s exactly the same. I play the song and Brian starts playing along with it immediately. He’s a brilliant musician. We connect and play o each other really well.

One guy I thought you both were connecting with was Brian Vigilone—your ex-Dresden Dolls drummer who had played with the Femmes for the last few years. He just handed in his resignation. What happened?
You think that’s bad, let me tell you what happened with this other guy in 1985. No, he says he wants to do other things, and I believe him. He’s in a band, Red Sails, whose frontperson is his wife, so there’s that. I can’t help but think that our dysfunction—a word that isn’t quite strong or good enough to describe our working environment—comes into play. Oh well.

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Q&A With The Vulgar Boatmen’s Dale Lawrence


It’s a powerful thing, having a band that feels like your personal secret. As I’ve read other writers on the subject of the Vulgar Boatmen, I’m always struck by that very particular quality. Whether it’s Bill Wyman or Greil Marcus or little ol’ me, the Vulgar Boatmen inspire a kind of confessional tone. We’re telling you about them, about our precious secret, because deep down, we know that you would love their music as much as we do. Ultimately, we try to give away the secret even though it’s something we really treasure.

I first heard the Boatmen around 1990 or ’91, when their first album, You And Your Sister, was still their only album. It’s a beautiful record, full of songs that were as rhythmic as the Feelies (who were also influenced by the Velvet Underground) but as melodic and singable as an Everly Brothers or Simon & Garfunkel tune. The lyrics were a unique blend of the instantly relatable and the eternally mysterious and puzzling.

By the time I saw the Vulgar Boatmen live, their second album, Please Panic, was out. It may be even better, in the sense that the songs are really strong and the performances are really good. “You Don’t Love Me Yet” (which gave a Jonathan Lethem novel its title) belongs on every mix tape you ever made. But as good as that record is, You And Your Sister remains the first document from this one-of-a-kind band. It’s the first thing we heard, so it still has a hold on us.

The band was unique, led by a Florida college professor and an Indiana musician. They wrote songs together by mailing cassettes back and forth—no emailing audio files in the late ‘80s. There were two full bands, one in each state, and they all collaborated on the records.

It has been 25 years since You And Your Sister appeared. It didn’t reach a large enough audience. But for those of us who did hear it, and who embraced it like a precious secret, it is a classic. With the 25th anniversary re-release of You And Your Sister, Vulgar Boatmen co-leader Dale Lawrence (the Indiana half) is guest editing MAGNET’s website this week.

Expect some new secrets.

—Phil Sheridan

The 25th anniversary of You And Your Sister is kind of remarkable. First off, there’s the shock that so much time has passed. From that perspective, how do you view the whole Vulgar Boatmen portion of your life? Any regrets?
One always has regrets, decisions that could have gone another way. But honestly, it’s hard for me to imagine having had the foresight to rethink any of that at the time. At this point, I mostly just feel really lucky. The odds of any band getting their music heard and appreciated (let alone it leading to great success) are always slim. That there’s still enough interest in the Boatmen, 25 years on, that we get to play out and that that’s still as much fun as ever—these are major things to be grateful for.

Would a more standard band setup have allowed you to create more music? Or does the music that exists benefit from the unique circumstances it was created under?
I really don’t know the answers to those questions.

One of the qualities of You And Your Sister and the other records is the kind of out-of-time aspect to the sound. Was that intentional? Or was it more a product of your and Robert’s influences—from the Velvets to the Everly Brothers kind of being timeless themselves? That said, do you think that comes into play now? Some records made in the late ‘80s or early ‘90s sound terribly dated while YAYS and Please Panic sound like they could have been made last week or in 1975.
Thanks. Well, it wasn’t conscious, but I think you’re right: The production models we had in mind—Buddy Holly, Stax/Volt, Rod Stewart—do have that out-of-time sound you’re talking about. Certainly, we weren’t trying to emulate any contemporary records.

The composition method you and Robert used—mailing cassettes to each other—was pretty unique at the time. With technology changing, it’s pretty typical for people to email each other files and work on music from different locations. Would that have been good for the Boatmen, or do you think the low-tech approach helped the music remain so organic and warm sounding?
You know, until the press started talking about it, it never occurred to me that the way we wrote songs was at all odd. If we’d lived in the same city, I’m pretty sure Robert and I would have written basically the same way, putting ideas down on cassette tape and working on what the other had come up with. The fact that we lived so far apart was the unusual thing, I guess. But I still bet lots of songwriting teams have used that basic method, just maybe not so long-distance. As for our songs, I don’t imagine that using files instead of cassettes would have changed things up much.

Is it satisfying that the music is still there and still available, having survived the revolution in how music is made and consumed, the decline and fall of labels and so many other events?
Very much so. It’s still not like we’re especially well known—and that would, of course, be nice. But, as I said earlier, given circumstances and the passage of time, I have to feel good about things.

Are there plans for similar treatments of Please Panic and Opposite Sex?
We hope so, yes.

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Exclusive Cover Story Excerpt: Savages Interviewed By Queens Of The Stone Age’s Josh Homme


Here’s an exclusive excerpt of the current MAGNET cover story. To read the whole thing, order a copy of the issue here.

Three years ago, London’s Savages materialized seemingly out of nowhere, brandishing vintage post-punk austerity and provocative double entendres. They made superfans out of labelmate Josh Homme and MAGNET, so on the eve of sophomore release Adore Life, we asked the Queens Of The Stone Age shredder to riff with the ladies about prurient interests.

London post-punkers Savages enjoyed staggering buzz for their exacting, artful 2013 debut, Silence Yourself. We’re talking the works: Mercury Prize nomination, breakout Coachella set, universal critical acclaim (MAGNET proudly included). It’s no surprise that Queens Of The Stone Age/Eagles Of Death Metal co-founder Josh Homme—a fount of impeccable taste (and riffs)—was thrilled to interview the quartet (sans enigmatic guitarist Gemma Thompson) about its curiously titled sophomore effort, Adore Life (Matador). Sex, love, repetition, primitivism and emotional tugs of war are all on the table in the ensuing, sprawling exchange.

Josh Homme: Guys, congratulations. This album is wonderful. It’s really cool—when you do a first record, nobody knows who you are. There’s nothing to compare it to, you know, and everyone always talks about that sophomore record being very difficult, but I never felt that way. It’s the comparison record to your first one, the first time you can be compared to your old self. Did you feel any pressure in the way of that for this record?
Jehnny Beth: Well, yeah, I agree. The first record, you don’t even think. You’re just doing what you’re doing. Especially because we started playing the songs from the first record live. We worked all the songs out, and then we were thinking of the recording as a document of that. And I think you’re right, because on the second record, then you are writing songs for a record.
Fay Milton: You’ve got more context. I don’t think we felt more pressure in that classic way of the second record.

Homme: I never felt that pressure either. I know people respond to that differently, but I think it’s this great moment to put up your second tentpole. It’s fun to define yourself and show that your second tentpole is going to go in this location to define your wingspan a little bit. So, I had a question about “The Answer,” which is: Is there anything to do with your first statement of your second record being “The Answer”? Is there anything to calling your first song “The Answer” because the amount of questions that come about from your second record? Or is it just a coincidence?
Beth: It’s half a coincidence. The line in the song is “love is the answer,” and a lot of this record is about love, which was not the subject we wanted with the first record, for various reasons. In a way, maybe this second record is working as a diptych with the first record for giving answers to questions raised on the first one. It’s like the first one is raising problems and the second one is trying to work them out, you know?

Homme: Yeah, I wanted to ask you: Is love, for you, a mental illness? Or is it a maze that one can be trapped in?
Milton: Yeah.
Beth: Both. Definitely.

Homme: Is it a treatable mental illness? For you, the pursuit and trying to figure it out, is kind of like holding smoke, which is impossible to do. This album is so about love, but it’s a very slippery fish. You know? Love.
Beth: Love is a slippery thing, yeah.
Ayse Hassan: The record kind of represents all the sections that love can be. It can fuck you up, it can be amazing. I think everyone experiences love in such a different way. Even the love that fucks you up, you can get so much from, and that can really shape you. With this record, especially with the lyrics, it reflects the sections of how love can be on so many levels.
Beth: It’s kind of a psychotic record in the way that it goes through very extreme moods, as well as the opposite. It looks to the future of how love can be one day and the freedom of that.

Homme: I sense that need to almost capture it. There’s almost like a stalking of it, in a certain way—and in other moments, there seems to be these realizations that love is this transitory thing and you can’t put a pin in it and hold it down. There’s a conflict, it seems like. Do you feel conflicted by the love that is in your past, in your present and in your future?
Milton: Yeah, I think so. It can be a real conflict. Love and hate are so close, it’s like laughter and crying. They both contain each other, I think.
Beth: I think in Savages we’ve always been interested in bringing opposites together, sound-wise. Using that element of surprise, like true love sounds quiet or life and death. Bringing extremes together and seeing the collision it creates.

Homme: I agree—the positive friction of the car crash of music, ideas and love. It’s almost searching for the car crash in its extremes. I think that’s why your name is so interesting, because for some people it’s just words that eventually represent their band. I think there is a very savage, primitive element to your band that derives from those extremes. And I have a question: Do you think that English being a second language allows you to play with words and the simplicity of translation as you translate your feelings?
Beth: Yeah, it is definitely simple sometimes, and the girls remind me of that. [Laughs]

Homme: No, but I love that. Something said simply, like in titles, or how you’re able to do something like “Sad Person.”
Beth: It’s funny because “Sad Person” is a song that doesn’t have the same meaning to me because I’m French, originally. I think someone said to me that being called a sad person was an insult, and I never thought about it as an insult.
Hassan: I remember us explaining to you the concept of a saddo—like you’re sad or a loser, which we were explaining to you about you. [Laughs]

Homme: There’s this beautiful simplicity there that is of great benefit because it’s not mired down, like when translating something through a translator. It gives you the most simple version, and it’s often the most poetic. So, I wonder if you ever realize the benefit, or if you mess with that, knowing that you are the translator machine, you know?
Beth: Definitely. There’s also French expressions that I use, which are in me, which are the metaphors I use in French, which are not used necessarily in the same way in the English language. And I think sometimes I know I’m using metaphors from my original language. And I know these metaphors are kind of on a different level than people who use the English language, but I try not to think about that too much. The rare thing and the very precious thing is that everyone in the band is interested in what we are saying, you know? Although I’m the only lyricist, there is always a discussion in what we are trying to say here, and what the message is. And I think the music for us creates a connection and can say something that the lyrics can’t say. When we started writing the new record, I had lyrics that were very hopeful, very positive, very warm, and with the music, I didn’t know if we would be able to use them, but they still work on top of a distorted guitar.

Homme: Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more. I can hear how important the lyrical delivery is to everyone in the band. An example would be in “When In Love,” when you say “knocking at the door” and Fay starts knocking at the door on the drums.
Milton: I’m glad you caught that!

Homme: I think there is this importance there with the bass sound on moments like “Surrender” where the sound of your rhythm section is really paying attention and trying the extrapolate what you are saying lyrically. Fay, do you guys want to elaborate on that? Is that an importance for you?
Milton: Completely. Some of it comes simply, like when she says “knocking at the door” and it sounds like knocking, but then there’s another level where it all needs to mean the same thing. By the end of “Evil,” it’s like an exorcism, and when we are playing it live as well, it’s very physical with smashing things out.

Homme: I have that written here, too. [Laughs] As you said, there’s a certain onomatopoeia aspect that is very simple, but I feel like other bands overlook that. It’s important to take advantage of something simple to get your point across. But I also think, as it translates to your record, there are things that you must play live because this record is so much about capturing emotion like a photograph. So, some of these things you must have had to play live to get the arrangement down to capture the rise of the emotion. Is that more important than being like, “We do this four times, and then we go to this part”? Is that a big discussion for you guys?
Milton: Yeah, I think it comes naturally. I think it’s definitely important on a lot of things, like the end of “Evil” and “knocking at your door,” which started to become elements when we were playing the songs live in New York. Those are two examples of things that really came from being a little rhythmic idea or a little bass idea into more of an emotional idea.
Beth: Yeah, I think Fay’s lines ultimately shaped what the songs became on this record, because we needed to put them in that environment to get the aggression and the energy and feed off that between us. There are a lot of songs where, we finished writing them in January in New York, and it would have been a very different record if we had just stayed in the studio and went and recorded straight away. We needed that, and that’s how we started when we recorded the first record. We spend a year and a half just playing songs on the road, and I think it’s essential that we played them live.
Milton: I think when it came to “Mechanics,” we wrote that song a little later on; I remember thinking it didn’t have a drum beat because there wasn’t one—it didn’t exist. We looked for it, and it didn’t. Sometimes a song needs a part, and you look for it and you find it, and sometimes you look and it’s not right. And partly that was because with the emotion of the lyrics, I couldn’t find that on drums. I’m playing the vibraphone on that song at the end. It’s different than when “The Answer” came out and it was, you know, violent. [Laughs]

Homme: I love that, though, because you’re getting to what I was hoping to hear, which was that some things aren’t required to speak of, so that’s why you play. You let the situations and the songs dictate the terms of what you’re doing. You don’t force drums on something that doesn’t have them.
Milton: That’s called a remix. [Laughs]


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A Conversation With John Cale


If John Cale’s new album M:FANS sounds hauntingly familiar, you are both correct and obviously a Cale aficionado. The legendary Velvet Underground viola player and composer—with a solo career that’s lasted since 1970—recorded 1982’s Music For A New Society at an ebb in his personal life (read What’s Welsh For Zen: The Autobiography Of John Cale to see how bad). That hard druggy existence spilled over to the scarred, blood-lustful characters who roam sad songs such as “Chinese Envoy” for a most chilling effect—that’s saying something considering vicious Cale albums such as Fear and Slow Dazzle. Healed, but restless, Cale ducked backward in 2015 to move forward with both a remastered reissue of the old Society and 2016’s reimagined new version that borrows the bad feelings without wallowing in them.

Not to start on a bummer note, but when I first heard about the Paris tragedy at the Bataclan in November, I thought of you, Nico, Lou and your show there in 1972. You guys put the club on the map. Do you have any recollection of the space or the spirit of the night?
It was a very tender night—lots of walking on eggshells because we hadn’t worked together since I left the band. I thought it was an interesting idea, though. Lou didn’t really want to do anything with me. I was there with Nico, helping her—it all just happened. It was fine. Serendipitous. All made sense somehow. That said, that didn’t loom large in my legend then—reuniting with Lou—but I guess in a way it needed to happen, just to see where things stood. That said, I didn’t want to be reminded of it by what happened in Paris.

There are two recently released boxed sets out—Loaded and The Complete Matrix Tapes—neither featuring your Velvets. Did you have much of a chance then to consider what VU sounded like without you?
I had my own issues to deal with at the time that were pressing. I knew they were there, but I can’t say that I focused on them. I devoted so much time to the Velvets—it was my job—and all of a sudden, I had this opportunity to stretch my imagination on my own and become a producer, which I wanted to be, as well as do my solo stuff. So, when all that went down with the band, it was easier for me to just wipe the slate clean and get on with things, with my work. That was the first thing on my mind, not the Velvets.

Dozens of solo albums behind you—how did you wind up picking Music For A New Society to re-release and re-record?
The longer an album of mine is around, the more people would ask me to do stuff from it live, which I’d been doing already with songs such as “Taking Your Life In Your Hands” and “I Keep A Close Watch.” Promoters in Europe, however, love those single-album shows that I performed for the likes of Fear, Paris 1919 and eventually Music For A New Society. I got to dress the songs up differently—its arrangements and, suddenly, its songs made new sense. I wanted to hear them again—and some I did not, since that time was stressful enough. I digitized reel-to-reels and found things I never finished, and began thinking of new versions that would take the strengths and frustrations of the old album and put them in a contemporary context.

Going back to a bad moment couldn’t have been fun.
Yeah, well, I wanted something that wasn’t quite as exposed and raw as Music, but still had that emotion. So, I dressed them in different clothing.

New clothing that resembles, in part, what you did with your most recent album—2012’s Shifty Adventures In Nookie Wood—and its collage electronica. Was that difficult at all, as Music For A New Society was future-forward-sounding, but much sparser?
Some is just readdressing the lyrics. Others have ideas that I wanted to use to make existing songs grow. I took a lot of what was there in the first place—accepted it—but drove it further.

Whether you knew some of the people or not that populate M:FANS and Society, they’re a grotty lot. Does each character have or get redemption in the end? Is that a reason behind M:FANS?
I don’t want to leave any character hanging in mid-air, even though there is usefulness in that. The redemption comes from the character, what he is telling you about himself.

Where was your head in 1981 and ’82 that resulted in the original?
It was not in a good place. The personal side of things? There was a lot of grinding going on. You can see those attitudes in spades within the original. I knew that I had to get out of where I was, away from the people that were around then. You hear that in “Taking Your Life In Your Hands.” I was thinking of those old songs when Lou passed, you know. That threw in a spanner into the works, but it also helped me rediscover a moment. “If You Were Still Around,” for instance—written then—had all the elements that any tribute that I’d pay to Lou would have.

I wasn’t going to ask about Reed, but you brought him up. Why do you think—considering the original amount of time you spent together and how long ago that was—you’re still so tied to each other?
Whatever the work was—that was the driving force. That was why I came to New York City and America in the first place: to collaborate, to work with someone. There was the work with (early avant-garde composer) La Monte Young, obviously, but then in the middle of that, I realized what I was missing was my teenage years. The Beatles arrived, so it was in my face. All of a sudden, I meet Lou and I’m thinking, “Here’s somebody who can improvise.” From there, I wondered how could we stick within the realm of the avant-garde and have it thrive there in some new ferocious way. In the ’60s, we were graduating, coming out of where we were into what was next and pushing something new.

You still have that as your principal guiding force.
Yes, I’m still that guy thinking what is next. Once you’ve done something like the VU—well, we knew that it was going to bother people, that the audience would have to face it wherever they may go.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With Roger Waters


Roger Waters is not a man to shy from aggressive questions focusing on the personal or the geopolitical, especially if you’re discussing The Wall, his 1979 classic (then with Pink Floyd, which handed over this lengthy conceptual work in the band’s legal split) turned into a narrative-laced concert fi lm/Blu-ray in 2015, with its accompanying soundtrack. Instead, every moment of a face-to-face chat held atop Sony’s Manhattan offices found Waters staring straight at his interviewer, save for odd gazes averting to overcast skies while mulling a question. “Roger’s intense, unafraid to make his opinion known,” says Sean Evans, The Wall’s co-director/writer, about fashioning improvisational narrative episodes with Waters, including road trips through Italy and France where his father and grandfather are buried as veterans of the World Wars. These rejoinders give Waters’ Wall epic conceptualization via duality, particularly the politics its creator has doubled down on when facing the Israel/Palestine conflict by urging fellow artists to boycott playing concerts in Israel.

—A.D. Amorosi

Your name is above The Wall’s title. I know you got the rights exclusively in the Pink Floyd split. Why is this more important to you than other conceptual projects you’ve written, from Animals to even The Final Cut and its Falklands War twist? They have their own inner and outer monologues. Why does The Wall merit continued attention?
I guess because The Wall’s metaphor is so damn clever, so neat and so open to all sorts of extrapolation, conceptualism and interpretation. The idea is so simple and so good with conclusions that you can point to, conclusions that are very easy to arrive at. You can answer so many political and personal questions here. I wrote this in 1979, and am certainly more aware now than I was in my 30s. We get older, we get wiser … hopefully.

You made a speech at the United Nations several years back and discussed how we built walls out of fear, then broke them down when fears were conquered. What do you say then to someone such as a Donald Trump whose existence, whose platform is based on building and maintaining new walls?
Trump is interesting. He’s symbolic of the “amusing ourselves to death” society, because in order to be part of it, it is necessary for him to be completely un-self-aware. The Trump that you and I see is an obnoxious clown who upholds everything that I find reprehensible about American society, but also the entertainment industry. See, Donald thinks he’s admirable. He su ers from a syndrome—he may be brilliant, but damaged, but in reality, he appears to have a low IQ. There are people who are dipshits who think they are da Vinci, think they understand the world and how it works; that he has interesting political ideas. In reality, though, he’s a 16th of an-inch deep, this guy.

That’s remarkably dangerous.
Yes, because the rabble can be roused. We saw that in the Weimar Republic. I hate to bring up the Germany of the ’30s, but there are models you can see that are deeply important for us to understand why things happened. People were disa ected. The economy was in tatters. So, here that is now—part of the unequal distribution of resources going on in the U.S. where riches are controlled by less than one percent and living standards have gone down for middle and lower classes. It’s no surprise that people are pissed off, yet have no idea where to direct their actions. So, where do they? Communists. Terrorists, fucking Mexicans, whoever. It is very easy to convince people that somebody else is responsible for the trouble; that if you only corralled them, everything would be all right.

The idea that the U.S. is a still a democracy is nonsense.
Everybody knows this, but we all still lip service to the idea that it is. That’s kind of dopey. If you say anything against it, you are a pariah. You can’t criticize the state. I’m starting to get a bit of lashing, suddenly fi nding one or two doors closed to me here and there, especially in the media … It’s funny. The company is trying to insure that I talk about the product. Fuck you, say I. They say I shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds me. If I wasn’t busy biting hands, I wouldn’t have written most of the stu that I did. Have they forgotten “Welcome To The Machine”?

I know you auditioned to be in Alan Parker’s 1982 film. Did you intend to be in this Wall as you are now, reading letters about your father and such?
No, it actually didn’t happen until after we had finished the concert footage. I knew there had to be more; a “what if” where the film started with me driving away from a show and into this journey, a road trip …

Three tours, two films. Do you feel as if you placed a period at the end of the sentence that is The Wall?
I’m probably done, yeah. I do, however, keep quite a few of the props and bits of scenery around in the hopes that—and I have publicly declared this—if the U.S. figures out how to persuade the Israelis to end the occupation of Palestine and tear down that fucking fence, that I will go and do The Wall in Israel as an act of celebration. For both of the peoples, so that we can all join together just like we did when the Berlin Wall came down. I don’t know if it will happen in my lifetime; maybe they’ll have to wheel me on. I keep an open mind and heart to such a peaceful resolution.

I know you identify as an atheist, so this isn’t a phrase you want to hear, but from your mouth to God’s ear.

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A Conversation With Peaches


When soft-spoken Merrill Nisker—a.k.a. nasty electro queen Peaches—asks the robotic musical question, “Whose jizz is this?” on “Dick In The Air,” it’s business as usual on the single from her newest album, Rub. Yet, with the rawness of that most recent release—as well as the publication of What Else Is In The Teaches Of Peaches, a book of photographs by Holger Talinski—the Canadian caution is more iconic than ever: a stripped-down, hardnosed, overtly sexualized artist untamed by any possible (and potential) mainstreaming.

I ask this only because I think she’s always been cast in a serious light. You worked on videos for the new album with Kim Gordon and Margaret Cho. Who was funnier to work with?
Wow, pitting them against other, huh? Well, Margaret is a comedian and totally up for anything that we were doing in the name of humor. “Here’s the mildly offensive yellow Asian outfit that’d I’d like you to wear while I put on the Caucasian pink costume.” “OK,” she’d say. “Margaret, we’re going to suck our own dicks in this video.” “Sure, no problem.” We have the same comic sensibilities, and I kind of knew that. With Kim, however, it was an incredible surprise. I told her that I wanted her to play my trainer, but she had to act as if she had no interest in training me. I just wanted her to be busy smoking an e-cigarette. She was totally cool with it, and easy being comic.

I know you directed theater stuff and taught drama before you got to pop music. I know you directed stage show Peaches Does Herself and the “Dick In The Air” video, as well as promo stuff for your first album. Did you live by the Hollywood dictum “Yeah, but what I really want to do is direct”? Was that a real goal?
I gave up the theater thing because I didn’t really want to work with actors. When I took up pop stuff, I realized that I could be everything: director, writer, producer, performer. That became a vision. So, I’m a control freak with a vision. By this point, I have an idea when I can direct something and when I can’t.

Yoko Ono. You’ve worked with her on her stuff—you did her conceptual art piece Cut Piece. She repaid the favor by doing a foreword for your photo book. How did that relationship come together?
She’s incredible, the very height of art and performance over the last 50 years. Yuka Honda (Cibo Matto) gave Yoko an album of mine for one of her birthdays, and then she called and asked me to do a remix for her “Kiss Kiss Kiss.” She came to Berlin on her 80th birthday to perform and asked me to join her and do my favorite song of hers, and I chose, “Yes, I’m A Witch,” which is just so relevant. While we were singing the song together, she turned to me and said, “You are a truly powerful woman.” Now, that was something else. Ever since then, we’ve remained in contact, and she’s brought me into several things—just like her Cut Piece, where I was quiet and naked onstage; things I would never be.

How did the photo book come together? It’s great fun—a sort-of anti-Madonna Sex.
The photographer was fresh out of photography school and was this skateboard kid, and he was curious if I was all that—like, “What’s the hype?” So, he started coming to my shows and taking pictures. We invited him on tour, and suddenly he’s asking to meet my family or to come over when I was alone and smoking a joint. He just wanted to be around, and I just felt comfortable with him. There were no weird ulterior motives, and it was never about him.

That’s very telling—this person breezed into your life and you were just open to it. “Come on in.” Is that a common thing?
No, that’s not normal. There has to be chemistry. And it wasn’t ever like, “Hey, I’m changing my panties. Wanna come see?” It was slow and gradual. He was thoughtful, and made himself invisible. He was respectful. You have to fi nd the people that you are most comfortable with in this business, because it can get crazy. You can’t have people pulling you every which way with their agenda.

It’s 15 years since your first album …
… to the day. This week, actually.

Would you say that making art/music with this persona—whatever you wish to call it— is the same on Rub as it was on The Teaches Of Peaches? Are there radical changes?
I think it’s much the same as when we started, but that it’s taken 15 years for people to get it. People might have wondered if I was a onetrick pony, but I have outlasted so many others. It’s pretty nice to stick around and reap the rewards. Within the same 15-year period, do you feel as if the onstage you and the o stage you have merged, or are they more separate than ever? Do you make certain that the gap stays wide? Yes, I think that the Peaches onstage is an extension of me and my real personality. I don’t think that it’s ever a problem or uncomfortable or anything. There are no issues. I feel like a normal person. The only time that’s compromised is when you release an album— because everything goes nuts all at once. The pressure of this, having to talk about myself every day, blah blah blah, is a bit much, but I set it up that way and in its time. I don’t want to disappear into that stage character. That’s how I can continue, you know. I don’t ever want to look at this or her as a chore. It’s funny: I had a bad day yesterday, all day, except for one moment—when I got onstage. Then all of a sudden, I was comfortable and enjoyed myself. It was truly special.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With John Lydon


John Lydon doesn’t need an introduction. A wind-up works, as the iconic punk (Rotten, late of the Sex Pistols) and post-punk (the ongoing-and-growing Public Image Ltd, or PiL) avatar is saying, singing and writing more than he has since his late-’70s start. While a second, more deeply personal and probing autobiography is now out, digging into physical ails and remarkable joys in Anger Is An Energy, PiL has just released its blabby new album,What The World Needs Now…, and an oddly comic single and video, “Double Trouble,” where Lydon presents the travails of wedded bliss through a handyman’s labor.

You’ve got one song on the new album, “Corporate,” which is about the prison of company hell, and another, “Shoom,” that seems to be about the futility of succeeding. You’ve been livingly noncorporately off-the-grid for a minute. What’s bugging you?
It’s the franchising of individuals. We’re still being flooded by mall-style clothing and ideologies. All of these attitudes are soul-destroying, wouldn’t you say? A sad example is how there’s so much great rap music, but the cottage industries around it are so sad. Nike is the biggest earners, yet their goods are not well-made, in my mind. I’ve had Nikes in my time, and they’ve fallen apart over the course of a year. In fact, they rot from the inside out.

John, a lot of things rot from the inside out.
I don’t, apparently. These are barbs against the record industry and entertainment complexes. No one should stifle you from the joy of your life. Corporate thinking is always the enemy. As for “Shoom,” well, that’s the first thing you hear on that song … a shoom from mucking about on a drum machine. The lyrics, however, are from the point of view of my father, whose sense of comedic timing was impeccable. I used to watch him from the time he came in the front door to when he was in the pub, all with that Irish accent of his. He was very dry and ironical, so “Shoom” is an homage to him and his point of view.

Were you close with your folks? Are they a natural part of your conversation outside of your songs and the book?
Well, you have to remember that I lost my memory for like four years being in a coma from having meningitis. For years, I didn’t know who they were, so when my memories returned, I wasn’t ever gonna let them go again. It’s nothing to take lightly, an amazing hardcore thing. Your personality, the core of your being; everything around you can be so quickly taken away. Luckily for me, it wasn’t permanent, but I was pissed.

One of the therapies that the doctors used was to harness your anger, yes?
Yes, to use anger as an energy. I slowly but surely recovered my memories, and I’ll never lose them again, I hope. That would be my worst nightmare. To endure that utter complete loneliness all over again, to not know that you belong to anybody—my love of humanity, my clinging to the world of other human beings would be lost. I know how quickly it can be taken away.

Would you say that you are a man surprisingly possessed of joy?
It’s not a surprise to me. I love life, but yes—I am nothing but gleeful. Sorry if it came off as something else, but no …

So, you’re a feeling man. Tender, even. Were your surprised to be so vilified at the start of your career? The Pistols, early PiL—you were demonized as an antichrist anarchist.
I was discussed in Parliament. Ah, institutions are foolish at heart. They are literally headless chickens running around in circles. If I could make that machine cease, it would be well worth any headache I’ve endured. I don’t need to get involved in pomp, circumstance and irrational attitudes.

Your ideology when you started PiL was to be self-maintaining. Has that carried on with this group (drummer Bruce Smith, guitarist Lu Edmonds, bassist Scott Firth)?
Be outside of the shit-stem so that we couldn’t be dragged down by it—that’s always been the goal. At the start, we were still attached to the label system. They were controlling purse strings. Certain band members back then smelt money, and that led to insider problems, but it was a good idea; one that I see coming together now, because all of us respect each other and are eager to work with each other, and absolutely love what we do. This new album shows that. We can’t all be perfect plumbers or perfect singers, but you do have to try…

Do you vote? Are you fully an American citizen by this point?
Yes I do, and yes I am. Very happily, too—a great idea, that. I got my membership. Made me very proud.

Are our politics funnier than England’s?
No. England is much more false and petty. They are absolutely still trapped in regime, some being thousands of years old. That club is a stranglehold that is very hard to achieve anything with or through beyond what you were born in or to. That’s a punishing regime—a form of enslavement. Here, you’re still young and there’s still many levels of hope, mostly personifi ed by our president and Obamacare. That is so particularly new American, and I’m more than happy to be here for that. In my mind, any society that doesn’t take care of its own—the unfortunate, the disenfranchised, the afflicted—is uninformed; the Wild West. At least England came up with a National Health Service, so good on that. That’s how a smart society handles things. All that and, still, America does have Donald Trump—a headless chicken if ever there was. He’s our best Christmas gift, and he’s arrived early.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With Tame Impala


Kevin Parker is no less of a lone wolf on Tame Impala’s newest album, Currents, than he was on Innerspeaker or Lonerism. Yet, this time out, he’s focusing on more active (still melancholy) aspects of the isolation he’s felt/written about in the past. The moving parts of disgust and bitterness are found in the heartbreak within the record’s electronic framework; a sound with its guitars tuned down and the light spattering psychedelia of his previous albums wiped clean. Currents, then, is that: a new Parker, now.

Dog man or cat man?
I used to be a cat man—still love them—but my girlfriend is a dog girl and I dig walking her dog, so I’m in the middle. I’d probably get a dog before a cat at this point.

Last time I saw Tame Impala, you were touring with Flaming Lips and Sean Lennon’s Tiger band. That sounds like a hoot. Were you shocked when Lennon told you that you sounded like his dad?
That whole thing was like a festival atmosphere—the habitual drinking and such. The Sean thing? I hate to get into a big thing about it. I get the feeling it’s just something he said o the top of his head one night. I mean, wow, that’s his dad.

Let’s talk about someone else: Mark Ronson, who had you on his new album. Tame Impala is one of his favorite acts. You don’t do a lot of guest spots. How was that hookup? What was the takeaway?
He was fun to work with, if for no other reason than he’s got all these other artists around him—Bruno Mars included. He gathers an amazing team—musicians, singers, authors—and uses them like an orchestra, just conducting. Brilliant minds that in any other situation you’d be worrying about the old “too many chefs spoiling the broth” cliché. Mark had this great way of bringing people together and bringing out the singular thing in each of them—but shows there’s no one way to do things. He finds inspirations in groups of people, and that provides another layer. Collaboration is his instrument, I think. None of that reflects on me and the way I make music on my own, but I see it.

As a person now, do you like your own company more than you like the interaction of friends?
I appreciate both these days. I do need time alone to allow thoughts to rattle around my head—for instance, that’s the only time I hear melodies—but I do want to connect with people. That’s what Lonerism was all about, just that wanting to connect.

That’s fine for Lonerism, but what about Currents? Do you think you have the goal you set out for?
There’s not a story per se. I’m not playing one character, but I do think there is a realization. The feeling that we’re not so disconnected is there. Definitely.

You’re in this, I know, but are the other characters pieced-together facsimiles? Fictions? People you’ve observed? Are they closer to you than that?
There’s definitely something autobiographical about Currents. I don’t know if I would be able to pull such meaning from subjects more distanced. It wouldn’t be as meaningful to me. Then again, I can always run out of true stories.

Woody Allen just said that, given the chance, he would remake every one of his films. Even his newest. Considering where Currents goes sonically, how different it sounds than anything in you catalog, think you would you change anything?
That’s a hard question. I have to force myself to say no. There’s always that temptation, and I know there are flaws, but I like accepting it that way. People have done things with and people have fallen in love to my records. Luckily, I’ve gotten better at making records, but I think I like what each of them does in their present state. I can make them sound better, but I can hear them for their romantic crustiness. I can hear the romance in the ramshackle way in which they’re put together.

How did the new sound become a thing— your thing for this album—in the first place?
I’ve always loved electronic music and wanted to make more of it; I just had to find a way to make it mine. Air. R&B things that use electronics. I probably listened to that more than, say, the sort of music I was making at the time, but I’ve never really had a way of mixing it into my music, my songs—or had the courage, really. To bring those two sides of me into one sound. For instance, I’ve always been into Michael Jackson, but I never found a way of expressing that influence.

Courage—that’s a funny way to think of it. I don’t want to analyze every word you say, but why that?
I think because eventually you have to stop second-guessing what you do, not be careful anymore. I think I have been too careful in the past. Before I took a next step, I self-analyzed every reason why and why not. It’s a blessing and a curse, really, because you do have a filter—what to leave in, what rubbish must come out—but it also stops you from making brash decisions, finding the wild and crazy, the joy of things. I think it takes courage to say fuck it, to dodge the consequences.

What motivated “Gossip”? It felt very Bowie Low to me, which is what—just an album of interludes, really.
I love interludes on an album, a thing that connects everything, comes out of nowhere, but act seamlessly. “Gossip” is its own little thing.

Are you a guy who keeps notes/letters from your past, or writes down volumes of lyrics? Currents come from a deep emotional wellspring that I imagine you ruminated upon somehow.
I’ve got that dreaded book, but I’ve never really written down a whole thing in my life. I just scribble some things down, but mostly just put what’s coming out of my head onto tape or whatever, attach  them to a melody and hope they stick—and that I at least remember them all when I’m onstage.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With Denis Leary


On a summer evening, while hail raged onto Manhattan’s streets, Denis Leary took the stage of Webster Hall with fellow comic actor Robert Kelly (Louis C.K.’s brother on Louie) and comedy newcomer Elizabeth Gillies (a Nickelodeon star) to hawk their FX series, Sex&Drugs&Rock&Roll. Conceived by Leary to skewer the tropes of ’90s excess as it’s played out in the PC/abstinence-filled/mopey indie/social media-centric present, its creator stars as a prototypical one-time sensation taken down by the (now) terrible trio of its title and looking for a comeback. The show gets funnier with each episode, there are appearances (onscreen and off ) by your indie-rock faves, and Leary’s hair looks fantastic.

This is a very specific moment that you start the action of the show—the year you broke. What were the models for it? People you knew?
A lot of guys I played with in Boston at Emerson College stayed my friends when they left town. Some of them, like Adam Roth, who I still play with, hit NYC and became the guitarist in bands like Jim Carroll’s and the Del Fuegos when each of those acts was hot. Then there was guys from Boston who made it super big, like the Cars. That fame, though, was much less interesting than watching the guys who didn’t make it, but wanted to be famous.

These bands had the same problem big bands had—the lead singer and guitarist not getting along?
I still know those guys. When we were filming Rescue Me, I would run into some of them on the Lower East Side, when you could still afford to live in that neighborhood. They were still doing it—few had given up the idea of stardom even in their 40s. Some, though, were bitter angry; blaming anyone they could for stealing their sound, their aura. My experience in show business? Everyone who’s famous has a dozen people left behind blaming them for their failure. For my Johnny character, those guys are Greg Dulli and Dave Grohl—that should have been me. But you’re not. You’re 50. Now what? You don’t find that in other professions.

Men who don’t make it in other professions rarely wear Cuban heels and leopard-skin pants.
You gotta pick a look. I remember running into Lenny Kaye—all in black, but in slightly baggier pants than usual. It wasn’t a new look. His daughter made him get rid of his skinny jeans and his jewelry because she was embarrassed when he took her to school. When I created Johnny, I had to consider guys who have had the same look their whole life, for better for worse. Bono chose a good look. My guy chose the wrong look, and it’s not aging well.

Why 1990? I had you sussed as a late ’70s/’80s music guy. Or was that to make the daughter a more plausible character, play into tropes such as the Twitter hoaxes you use in the show?
I started it in 1990 because that’s when I first got famous. My insight on fame came from me coming up doing all that MTV stuff like Remote Control. One of my best friends, Ted Demme, created Yo! MTV Raps, so I had that exposure. Big rock guys and up-and-coming rock guys were everywhere—the Stones, Grohl, Dulli’s Afghan Whigs started to kick. That was a rich time; I wasn’t into grunge, but I liked Nirvana. The Whigs got tied into that Seattle thing, even though they went against trend. They just thought they were rock ‘n’ roll. That’s why I picked Greg and Grohl—I had to find guys for Johnny to blame, and who better? You have two forms of the rock star: the giant star, which Grohl is, and the critically acclaimed indie god like Dulli. Johnny’s failure is reflected in those two guys. When they went onstage, they went to work—something Johnny had problems with then and now.

You invoke Bowie quite a bit during S&D&R&R. The title song sounds like “The Jean Genie.” You bring him up seven times in the first two episodes. Do you think his talent dried up before Let’s Dance, like Johnny says?
No … but Johnny believes that. And I thought the Let’s Dance tour was great. In my pantheon of stars, Bowie is at the very top. The Stones and the Who got me through the ’70s until the Clash arrived. Bowie was huge throughout all of that. I met him doing a television show from a London West End Theater where Bowie was the musical guest. I stepped outside to smoke when Bowie arrived, and all of a sudden, he asks me for a light. Swear to God, I couldn’t talk. Then he asks me what Bobcat Goldthwait, Sam Kinison and Steven Wright were like. I told him, they called him in for sound check, and that was it. I’ve never met him again, and I wasted the entire fucking conversation talking about Bobcat Fucking Goldthwait!

Are you really not much of a Radiohead or Morrissey fan, as portrayed in the show, or were you just looking for someone to hang mope-rock jokes on?
I’m actually a huge Morrissey and Smiths fan; Radiohead, too. Here’s the thing: I’m not a fan of pretentiousness. That’s tough, though, because some of my favorite rockers can be pretentious. Before Springsteen did “The Rising,” he was getting there. I hate pretense, prog rock, Yes and all that fucking bullshit. I like three-minute songs. After “The Rising,” though, I gave Springsteen a free pass to do anything he likes because that was an extraordinary comment about what we went through on that day—and so quickly after that event. Radiohead, I fucking love, but they get denser as they go along. Morrissey is great, but, dude, really—I can’t have a fucking hot dog? C’moooon.

—A.D. Amorosi

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