And believe me, true believers, this is all I feel. The hatred radiating from your monitors, linked up to this very one from all over the nation. Upset that I’ve put off updating for an entire day, you’ve burned literal holes into my back with your staring. Not figurative holes; literal! With third-degree burns and blood to show for it.

Which is your right. I have no excuse. Well, aside from doing research for my Washington Semester project and playing a solid four hours of Tatsunoko vs. Capcom.

Also, getting tickets for this:http://forgetters.blogspot.com/

Yes, sir; on February 6th, yours truly is going to take a little train ride on up to New York, New York and pay a visit to one of the best singer/songwriters of the last twenty years. Mr. Blake Schwarzenbach himself. It won’t be a personal meeting, obviously; I’ll simply be admiring the man and his band from a distance while also exposing myself to groups I’ve never heard. Which is as it should be. I cannot claim to be a music fan when only two of the bands that I listen to regularly are performing to this day (and only one of those artists is younger than 40).

What I can claim to be, though, is a Blake Schwarzenbach fan. If you’ve ridden with me in the past three years, as Monsieur Rainwater certainly has, you’ve no doubt noticed that my rotation of CDs tends to include AT LEAST one Jawbreaker album at all time. And for good reason: I’ve no doubt they are the finest punk/emo/pop-punk/whatever the hell you jackals would call them/ band to come out of California in the 80s, and I doubt that any yet has quite matched them. Being tone-deaf and rhythm-dumb, I cannot account for why I enjoy the purely musical elements; I simply do. I’ve not aesthetic theory for this, only the sense that there is something inherently great in their composition.

But the lyrics and the vocals… Mein Gott! If you’ve read the old blog posts, you’ve no doubt seen that I’m not the biggest fan of song lyrics. Generally, they are trite at best, laughable at worst. Mr. Schwarzenbach, being a highly literate man and something of a Beats scholar, is no such hack. He plays with words as professionals play their sports: with astounding talent and sincere passion. Though he tends to favor songs covering romantic ground, he manages to avoid always the trap of maudlin sentimentality. Cliches he avoids at all cost, and never does he stray into melodrama, despite the slope of the territory. If you’d like an example of the man and his band at their best, find someway to listen to the following songs:
“Donatello”, off of Bivouac;
“Like a Secret,” from the same;
“Peel it the Fuck Down,” off of Etc.;
“Fireman,” off of Dear You;
and finally, “Condition Oakland,” from 24-Hour Revenge Therapy (here’s a hint and pseudo-spoiler: a Garage Raja story arc some time in the distant future is going to bear this title. Don’t say I don’t do handouts!).

His second act, Jets to Brazil, I cannot much promote. I’ve not yet gotten around to buying the albums. I should,though. The one song I’ve listened to, “I Typed for Miles,” bears every element I’ve come to love from the man.

Likewise, I cannot say anything concerning Thorns of Life or this current act. All I can do is have faith in a man the works of whom have managed to keep me healthy and sane over these last three years. All I can do as a fan of music is encourage you to give them a try. And if you’re in the NY, NY area during this concert, do not hesitate to track me down! I’ll probably be advertising the comic in some way, shape or form.