Greatness, at present (by and in large), does not exist.


Read the title attached to this post, "greatness, at present (by and in large), does not exist". I believe that. I really do. The historical value in quality of worth and influence is time-honored. Few people throughout our desolate human past have traversed this gap into greatness amid the existence of present. Its a fucking sand trap.


We're all fucked. All of us and all our our stupid shitty hard work. All our dimes and nickels. Sluts that we are, whored into a coin slot of credit and delicious laurels.

[This is not a diss:] I'm thinking in direct notion to music. Trends within popular music formulate laws based on limited observation and influence. A working model in context of itself. So when I see Wavves and Blankdogs listed under influences, it is strange to me. Just plain strange and too soon. Chill out, let it simmer. Crock pot that shit.

It's as if there is this crazy derelict within knowledge that people are too _?_ to collect on their own. German philosopher Immanuel Kant -- "Although all our knowledge begins with experience, it does not follow that it arises from experience."

Taking into consideration this "a priori" and "a posteriori" distinction: truth that is assumed from reason; truth that is evident by experience. I'm going to state that truly knowing and forming an intimate relation with your music is important. It is strong, not weak, and secure. Forming musical aspirations built on summation of trends is weak, not secure, and distant.

Get all close n shit.

But, buttttttttttt. I can form a weak visceral judgement and motive based on my intrinsic notions. "I like this music, because I like it." I don't have to know or even begin to understand the historical accuracies and importance of a sound that sounds fucking amazing to me. How special is that? Music is such a dick. We make it what we want. And the internet is our means to an end. 

A vehicle,
A catalyst, 
My lover;
I can't live with or without it.
- Melissa Meyer

This whole idea was brought up in conversation today with ----. It got a little heated, and I was left fucking openended as the yoosh. We were talking about this band from Ontario, Little girls? Yeah, it was over Little Girls. Captured Tracks is releasing something. The band is promoting a contemporary common yet pleasant noise. Some might say they produce sounds just like wahhh and bahhh. To me, well ... it's fuel in the fire. A future fire. 

Cool. I mean, picture that shit. Future fire. Does it even look like fire? Hmmmm....

Little Girls is a continuation band. Though, I like it. And I have nothing against bands that say to themselves, "Hey bandself, let's make music that sounds like wahhh and bahhh. Why? Well, just because I like it". You don't need more substantial support other than that. A completely superficial prerogative.

On levels of historical greatness, who knows what and who will be embraced by the dirty hands of father time. If you want to gain ground in your running for such titles either be greater than Jesus or die. Only with death can life be determined. I don't really need to finish this thought. It's kind of stupid. 


Here is a letter from Lester Bangs, received by Dave Marsh in 1986 -- 4 years after Lester's death. That is some great shit.

From the Cloud of Lester Bangs


You know that jive about "If there's a rock and roll heaven, they must have a hell of a band"? Don't believe it, pal

All the talent went straight to Hell. All of it. The big acts up here are Jim Croce, Karen Carpenter, Cass Elliot, and-- especially--Bobby Bloom! It's a nightmare! If I have to hear that fucking "Montego Bay" even one more time, I may kill mysel...(ah, shit, keep forgetting).

Anyway, I apply for admission to Hell every six months but they keep turning me down, claiming--dig this: I'm too good hearted! Write 'em and set 'em straight, willya? Tell them just what an asshole I can be when I feel like it, Tell Uhelski to do the same. And Marcus. (By the way, make him cognizant how much I appreciate his wading through all my old writhing (with the "h")

Met God when I first got here. I asked him why. You know, 33 and all. All he said was "M.T.V." He didn't want me to experience it, whatever the fuck it is.

Gotta run. Literally. Another herd of hoary Harp hacks heading here. Playing Zep's "Stairway" of course. Fucking national anthem in this burg. Can't believe nobody here is hip to the Elgins.

Take it from me, Dave. Heaven was Detroit, Michigan. Who woulda thunk it?

Eternally yours,




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