Prior to kickoff, fans had sang Christmas carols outside the ground targeting the club’s London owners and chief executive, Joy Seppala.
Throughout the televised clash, home fans continued to make their feelings known.
They delivered choruses of “we want Sisu out”, while after five minutes supporters from the area of the ground known as ‘singer’s corner’ made their way down the stand towards the pitch – in full view of the television cameras. Others continued to blow whistles, which Sheffield United striker Billy Sharp later admitted confused members of both sides.
One City fan managed to pass stewards during the half, making his way onto the playing surface and sitting in the centre circle as play stopped around him.
(there’s a reason why the members of The Star Spangles are to this day flossing their teeth with $1000 bills, while the members of Shellac toil in unforgiving day labor – read below)
Like many of my friends, I was saddened this week to learn of two of my favorite bands were going on self-described hiatus. Both are trios composed of awesome human beings with the sort of talent, ingenuity and wit we should never, ever take for granted, not for a second.
Their respective reasons for putting stuff on pause are certainly no one else’s business and neither band owes us anything — not after the countless amazing shows (and in the elder band’s instance, a run of 6 astonishing albums in just 3 years). That said, I cannot help but point a finger of blame in the direction of “Miami” Steve Van Vandt, who laid the groundwork for this turn of events with his open letter to participants in the 2004 “Underground Garage Festival” at Randall’s Island (“it is extraordinarily unlikely for anyone to make it as a three-piece band”) in which trios were encouraged to “add a fourth or even fifth member if at all conceivable.”
“If your band does not have a ‘look’ this might be a good time to consider it,” warned Van Zandt, who went on to state, “one of our main goals is to continue to establish a new infrastructure that allows Rock and Roll bands to make a living playing music,” (“the better your songs are, the better you look, the more musical you sound, and the more exciting your performance, the better our chances of winning this war we are waging against the exclusive domination of hard rock, hip hop, contemporary pop, and rootless, soulless, mindless, lifeless, hopeless, joyless mediocrity in general.”)
Fast forward a dozen years later and we all know how things turned out. Every band you know is making a decent living playing music. Much the way Little Steven vanquished apartheid and managed to pull off other miracles-against-all-odds (for instance, making Nils Lofgren look relatively cool by comparison) today, Rudi Protrudi earns a salary in the high six figures presiding over the Fuzztones Fantasy Camp. Hip hop and contemporary pop are mere rumors on the cultural landscape compared to the Chesterfield Kings revival that’s swept the world ever since.
Against this backdrop, I think it’s fair to say that Carl Sagan’s Skate Shoes and Spray Paint never stood a chance. I appreciate their quixotian struggle and do hope in the years to come, Van Zandt’s stranglehold on the public’s imagination is finally broken.
(were this gentleman alive today, he’d undoubtedly eschew DIY venues and self-released singles for the more efficient route of simply sucking up to the very wealthy)
With today’s Pitchfork story about grant monies for Shakey Graves, I’ve now crossed the rubicon where I can no longer tell the difference between real and fake news.
Tin-foil hat zealots are targeting local pizzerias? Totally believable. A non-profit is awarding grants to tomorrow’s Dan Fogelbergs so they can hire even pricier representation to ensure coverage on what’s ostensibly meant to be public airwaves? Forget it. Unpossible. No one’s that naive.
This all strikes me as patently unfair. Why award grants to Shakey Graves and Wild Child when you could use that same energy to petition America’s Big Banks to lower their interest rates on loans to Quiet Company?
All kidding aside, I understand the folks in charge of the grants have some real criteria for those under consideration. They wanna see some evidence of national touring, making new recordings and playing shows for other non-profits. Which all sounds pretty cool and I totally cannot wait to see what Johnathan Cash does with his grant money.
This also represents a unique opportunity for the donors. No longer will they have to live with the gruesome self-recognition that they’re easily entertained by the most basic slop ever heard in the background of a Starbucks. Nope, they’re now PATRONS OF THE ARTS.
From 1991-1998 Simple Machines published a series of pamphlets with solid, researched details on how independent artists could maneuver the choppy waters of manufacturing and distributing their own recordings.
Because circumstances have changed and I realize you’re all pressed for time, I have graciously decided to publish the following revised edition of said publications.
Greetings a very happy Hanukkah (18 days early) for all of my dear friends throughout the Yankee Universe. Of course, it seems as though IT’S RAINING GELT for our rivals some 4 hours down I-90, what with today’s blockbuster deal that sees noted uniform slasher Chris Sale joining the reigning division champions.
Our gutless/oversexed/ostensible General Manager has likened the Red Sox to the Golden State Warriors, which is a fascinating analogy given a) there’s no team in the major leagues with that name, and b) the basketball outfit meeting that description are at least as well known for being massive choke artists as they are for attempting to buy another championship.
So in other words, what Brian Cashman lacks in self-control, he occasionally makes up for in insight. And from this vantage point, I cannot help but be deeply saddened that a club with as storied a history as the Boston Red Sox would prefer to win a title in December than than the traditional October. Or November. You know what I mean.
Certainly, winning 3 World Series in the space of 9 years is impressive, but if adding a 4th trophy in 2017 is some sort of inevitability for the Red Sox and their boorish, entitled fan base, doesn’t that seem rather joyless at the end of the day? What kind of romance is there in rooting for a franchise that’s….sorry, I’m struggling to find the right comparison for our younger readers…the modern day equivalent of IBM?
If next year’s edition of my Baby Bombers — spearheaded by home-grown talent like Jacoby Ellsbury, Starlin Castro and C.C. Sabathia — ends up out of the running, it won’t be for a lack of heart and won’t be for a lack of brilliance on my part. And I can’t possibly worry myself with whatever hollow victories are piled up in some antiquated dump, not when we’ve got the grandest of all retired number ceremonies to prepare for. Maybe you haven’t heard, but I’m going to get the original Megadeth lineup back together for the occasion.
(above, a regular Algonquin-fucking-Roundtable (pizza) ready for a thorough and civil dialogue about the implications of their carefully considered band name. Unless you’re not a fan, in which case, y’know, go fuck your feelings)
After Hotel Vegas cancelled Black Pussy’s show last night, the latter took Facebook to announce they’d be showing up anyway, “to engage in dialogue if anybody feels like they would like a conversation…instead of reading click-bait headlines.”
That’s immediately followed with, “don’t like the band name? Don’t show up.”
So just to make sure I’ve got this straight, Black Pussy would like to have a dialogue about their (stupid) name, unless you’ve already decided you have a problem with it. In which case, they’re encouraging you to boycott a show they’re not even playing.
I CAN’T IMAGINE HOW THEY GOT THEMSELVES INTO THIS MESS
In 1986, I was fortunate enough to bear in-person eyewitness to Lenny Dykstra’s game-winning HR down the right field line off Dave Smith in the Game 3 of the NLCS. At the time, I could not have possibly envisioned that more than 3 decades later, I’d be spilling the beans on the future felon financial wizard being hand-picked for loftier things by our future President.
With all due respect to LeBron James, Conor McGregor, Simone Biles and Kris Bryant, we’ve got a new nominee for the year’s top sportsperson/creature. Who knew it would take a stray dog to get James Shields off the hook?
“We live in a country that ignored all those values that we hold our kids accountable for.” That’s just a portion of Spurs head coach Greg Popovich’s take on Donald Trump’s electoral college victory this past Tuesday, citing (amongst other things), Trump’s “race-baiting and fear mongering.”
Likening the President-Elect to “an 8th grade bully,” Popovich added, “I can’t imagine being a Muslim right now, or a woman, or an African American, a Hispanic, a handicapped person. How disenfranchised they might feel.”