Pillbox

Paperhouse

You’re at the show, watching them play. You don’t know who they are, but you envy them and their warm-hearted bohemian lifestyle on the road. You listen for a little and you now conclusively know that the coolest kids rhyme on time; they mellow to the flow and they slow with the rhythm. They’re the fortunate few that have the kindness to release what you give them.

Unfortunately for those hepcats, the assurance of the reverb sits far too tight on their jeans. As they strut their stuff from skate-punk to lo-fi ballads, it’s important to remember that garage rock as a modern ethos is as alive as God and the impassioned bearers of his cross.

In the predawn yawn of Pittsburgh, there’s a shattering of rock-and-roll lovers circling outside as the band loads their gear. After the show, there’s the ritual cigarettes and mulling about, but not much more — just an intricate game of others watching you, watching them, watching you. There’s something to that. It’s not clear what it is, but as your narrator, I’m certain there’s some beautifully orchestrated reason why you do it, right?

The moment you put on that 1997 acid jazz explosion that catapulted melody into the nearby garbage receptacles, you expected nirvana. Instead, all you got was a ride on a sawtooth wave that thrust you ever deeper into the nihilism of the your rejected Catholicism. So, reader, be you asleep or dreaming, I promise that the cool satin lick of time will bring you comfort. See, you had always thought that you’d be released by a cacophony of righteous rebels and Earth-loving anarcho-punks, but here you are, in the poorly formed cradle of loam and hand-held devices that you yourself dug.

You wait a year, I tell you. You’ll find a special someone who makes wishes when she enters new churches for the first time, and she’ll help you realize that all you need to get by is the steady hum of a poorly tuned radio.