Review Summary: Find a musician you loathe, and give him your f*cking money, chum.
Let me tell you a little about myself. Until three days ago, I was a headmaster at a posh polytechnic school for the young and gifted. Why did I get fired, might you ask? I’ll tell ya if you shut up for a second.
I kept getting complaints from the teachers that there was a vagrant sleeping on school grounds, and that the rose garden would have empty bottles and junkie works scattered about. After a thorough investigation, I’d found out that the vagrant was me. That’s not why I got fired though. The school was decommissioned on account of young people getting less gifted by the minute, all the while somehow becoming more special in their own minds. Strange stuff, I tell ya.
After the school was closed, all its contents were auctioned off. There were barrel-loads of pointless poshness strewn about everywhere – spools of Burberry, paintings of Jesus schlepping a hunk of wood someplace, slip-on shoes to wear at regattas, pheasants in tweed jackets, a cage full of people all named Dickie Picklington III, Sting. I looked over that expanse of horse***e and thought to myself – to Hell with this nonsense, I’m going to America, land of ambition and sense, where no bull*** flies!
So I got to Red Hook in Brooklyn and quickly realized that it’s no different, except the posh c*nts in America are even less-read than the limey ones. Still I thought to myself, stiff upper lip, Compost you old chap, you old bum-magnate, you old tiddly plonking wobble-smatter, you old nonce. After three days in Brooklyn, I was coaxed into a disco situation – a song came on, naturally, as they do in disco situations.
By golly, I thought, it’s the Talking Heads except a bit shit. Then another song came on.
By golly, I thought, it’s the Velvet Underground except a bit shit. Wouldn’t you know it, another song came on.
By golly, I thought, it’s Roxy Music except just as shit.
So I fedaddled over to the closest ladywoman and beseeched her – Wench, what is this cacophonous nincompoopery?!
Calm down there, puddner boy, she told me. This here is one of them LCD Soundsystems with the scraggly guy with the laptops and the sofwares and the gobblygooks and whatnot, ya hear.
Suffering Succotash! That accent, that sweat-on-your brow, soot-on-your-hands Americana, where are you from, you wonderful creature? I screamed.
Pakistan, she told me.
We danced the night away and were promptly married.
We sent the bloke from LCD Soundsystem an invitation with a hand-written note that said – Your music brought us together, come to our house and eat a chicken or something.
When he showed up to the address, which was in fact an abandoned condom factory, we pushed him in and barricaded the door and threw piranhas in through the windows. It was the most wonderful ceremony.
In summary, you know that saying they mutter about things of beauty sometimes – When they made you, they broke the mold. Well, when they made LCD Soundsystem, they put that mold back into the discount bin at Wal-Mart.
