sick sick sick Stretch o’time to Pavement gripewater

Stretch sick. Stretch blah. Stretch in need of some sortin out. Stretch evil. Stretch a bad bad monkey.

this is sick man, sick

Stretch angry. Stretch tired. Stretch pissed off.

It’s times like these when you feel the Cramps coming on. There is no other band I know that are successful at removing me from a stagnant pool of my own misery. They wash over me like a loofah made of degradation and depravity.

The dirty feelings a monkey has when watching these sexy human beings would make a retired schoolteacher blush, a randy vicar be mesmerised and a travelling salesman retreat to his motel room without dinner.

Be that as it may, this monkey be determined to get over things. Things like Pavement’s reunion tour, which is not for the love of the moosic. Stephen Malkmus will just go through the motions, you know he will. I mean, why would a Pavement fan even need to buy a greatest hits album? A fan would have all their stuff anyway. Is it just little me?

Pavement are one of my favourite bands of all time and it pains Stretch to say it, but they pissed me right off. They released remastered versions of their albums (apart from Terror Twilight) over the last ten years. Great jobs with loads of unreleased and rare live tracks and piccie books. So, why would indie’s coolest band turn to the usual greed? Maybe it’s little me. There’s a depressing inevitability these days watching your heroes take off their capes and with remarkable speed, urinate on small grannies and puppies! Why can’t anyone stay cool? Why? Why? Is it just little me?

The Pixies did it. They couldn’t stand to be in the same room as each other, but they did it. I suppose, to be fair, these groups have to take advantage of certain economic conditions. They have to realise there’s a few quid still left in those indie kids that used to adore them. Those idealistic kids who now run small factories releasing effluent into rivers. Those idealistic kids who now sit in insurance company cafeterias making “I’m not racist but” conversation with other withered souls. Those idealistic kids who now try to peel the skin off their shocked faces when looking in the mirror on a Monday morning. Those kids.

Anyway, I suppose I’ll get over it, and if I can, I will go to see them live, because I’m an asshole. But, I ain’t smilin or clappin, no way. I will stand there, tap my foot and grimace. A lot. Now, I am going to attempt an experiment with my pets. Here Shep! Here Tiddles!

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