Dear 1992,
Wow. It's really been a long time. I bet you're kind of surprised I'm writing to you at all. We didn't really know each other when you were around. But I was pretty busy. I had that gig taping firecrackers to GI Joes and that other one where I kept buying six soft tacos, no cheese, at taco bell. That was before they had fire sauce. It was just hot sauce then. Remember? In any case, I heard a lot about you after you took off.
1992, I liked what I heard. We were really into all the same things - neon colors for instance. And we both loved it when hip-hop songs had scratchy sampled horns. Also, both of us have loved those songs where long-haired young white men would just...sort of....smash on the same three Goddamn chords. Smash, smash, smash, they would go. Blllllaaaaannnnngggg CONfUsioN LONELYFUCK etc. Man, some of those were sweet. But you have to admit that most blew. And the bands would be called like Hogan's Hobos or Iguanodon or whatever. You remember those guys? They were always from the Northwest or some doucher college. Oh man. And do you recall that other kind of song those dudes loved? The kind where they'd pick one catchy undistorted guitar riff and then the singer would do weird shit over it? You didn't like those as much, but later on they became more beloved. "El Scorcho". Every other Pavement song. Right? I bet you wish you'd been more into that when it was big.
I'm writing to talk to you about this new band. They're called Deerhunter. I think you would like them...a lot. Which is weird because, you know, they don't know you. If they were playing music when you were around, it was Greensleeves on recorder. And yet they're making me miss you. No, strike that. They're making me sort of glad you're gone. Let's be clear: I still get down with some of those bands you liked so much. See, 1992, bands can do that. They can exist in the kind of universe that letters to 1992 exist in. The kind of universe where the only thing that matters is pulling it off. But usually they exist in the kind universe that online music reviews exist in, the one where even basic competence is a tall order. That's the universe Deerhunter lives in, and that's the universe I'm forced to live in when I listen to their album Microcastle . It pretty much just alternates between BBBllllaaaannng BBBlllannngggg BBBBBBBLLLLLLlllaaaaaaannnNNNNGG and faux-intellectual "El Scorcho"s. (Le Scorcho?). It's like listening to My Morning Jacket, only just as pointless. Actually, is this a My Morning Jacket Album? Hold on.
No, it's not. That's too bad. At least they'd have some sort of a gimmick going for them. Kind of a Chris Gaines thing. Let's wrap this up by saying all the songs are basically uninteresting and of two types: distorted and not. Twenty listens in, I can't even tell you which tracks suck the least. Forget this album and this band.
See also
boredom, lonelyfuck
