How To Replicate The Pleasant Confusion That Is Thurston Moore
A Guide For Neophytes
I’ve dreamt of sycamore trees, homemade ice cream off the via delle setti ponti, and ex-wife alimonies but I’ve never been as confused as I was at the muli-disciplinary homage to Kurt Cobain at the Gusman Center yesterday. Let’s talk about being lured under false pretenses, let’s talk about the incongruences of the recently aborted, and let’s pretend we like each other for a minute or two.
I think Thurston Moore’s all right; he’s a local boy who’s done well and is known throughout the land but I am so pleasantly confused about the last night’s “Kurt” proceedings that I’ve got to chime in.
How do we explain it briefly? Well, there was a short film, interpretative dance, a yahoo with a guitar, the Thurston and a newly anointed German on the skins… But is that satisfactory music journalism? I’ve never been on the carburetor dung end of things, I’m a sham, a put on, a plan B; but I’m still me.
So, through the magic of the internet, I’ll do my darnest to recreate that which I saw.
The film. Cute, but twelve minutes of my life I’m never getting back.
It was the halcyon days of the late ’90s, my friend Tanya dragged me out to some “film” thing and I was hit with this thing. I wish I had a job too son, I wish I wasn’t so thirsty either, I wish I knew what I was doing here because quite frankly, being broke all the time will not get me a wife or a raison d’etre other than fanciful bouts of non-paying poesy. Sweet hoodie though.
That’s how the horse springs out of the gate. Bear with me sweet mare.
So then we move to interpretative dance, a genre I am in no way, shape or form an authority on. I’ll say this much: This crew of five exhausted me with their unlimited energy.
Kinda like this:
Kapagintaw Dance Troupe
Just like the video, I’m at a loss for words, granted, they had sweet lumberjack outfits on. Great. Chop me down a tree nigguhs.
And just when you thought you’d be safe from some sudden onslaught of “art,” out comes the guitar guy. Brace yourselves.
Yup, just like that, but a little bit longer and a Helluva lot more irritating on our collective nerves. Jesus, couldn’t they come correct with a bucket of oily fried chicken?
And then Thurston Moore comes out and sure, he’s from the Gables and he’s earned his right to be, but did we need a six-hour long monologue on his upbringing? Well, no, I take that back, some of the stories were pretty good; you always want to hear about good families and underground commix filled with writhing sex and he spoke lovingly of his momma who this Arab boy can appreciate.
It was something a little akin to this:
But without the beard. LIV strong Miami!
And then he either fudged or planted Steve Bristol’s name in deference to the “Berlin” nomenclature, we’ll never know, and broke into two pieces of straight-up noise exegesis filled with murderous intent. Which is worthy of note, that on a personal WC break I witnessed several audience members leave the house because they too were lured under false pretenses believing this would be either a) a Sonic Youth reunion or b) a Kurt Cobain tribute show. Oh giddy, them kid’s is too cute!
But whatever it was, it was something like this:
Way better drums though, even though the whole time I felt like this should break out, you know from left field or some such shit:
Well, maybe I’m wrong and I just plain don’t know “art,” but if Mama Cass’ rendition of this tune does not give you a hard-on, check your collective pulses ladies and germs.