The Press Darlings
Standard Candles
Veronica's Veil Recordings

At a lull at the end of a party at the end of some Hyde Park block, the subject was broached to me by one particular lad if I thought that another My Bloody Valentine record would ever come out. Of course repressing the bile at having missed their legendary show from a near decade ago at the Liberty Lunch (RIP) simply because I couldn't fathom paying $12 for a show I would have to drive to (this being high school and 100 miles from Austin), I answered cooly, perhaps with a puff of a Nickel, that I couldn't care less if another My Bloody Valentine record ever came out, because there is no way for it to even stand next to the mountain that is Loveless. (See The Stone Roses' Second Coming for clues.)

Having heard such atrocities as the Mogwai remix and the contribution to Mr. Oppurtunist hisself (aka DJ Spooky) on that Subliminally Minded EP, and having not heard such dumbass ideas from The Wire about a 'Harmonica Feedback Quartet', it would be best for Mr. Martin to vy for some of that space in Brian Wilson's sandbox, because he would only cripple the fervored religion that has since been erected over the blurry blood fingers and frets of that last transmission. His noise is now scattered like charred martyr dust, recollecting in lesser ears, and futily attempting sparks of divinity on too pavlovian a tongue. His message has been transmitted, yet it has been diluted by influence as well. That dust does have a scent though, like overcooked tubes, deep-heated orange and violet, churning like lounge electricity itself, so big and blue, swallowing back the back wash of lukewarm bottles of Sixteen Deluxe, a water purified and distilled by rippling feedback. These oceans might mean subconsciousness, as we are soaking in it, but what would R.E.M. sleep be like for each diving raindrop? Must it too worry about rent and day jobs, even in the middle of a daydream? And what's with all these single-word titles, neither pearls of syntax in and of themselves, nor slushing down storm drains near this wet writer's block into a precipitated whole? Is it that hard to remember a title, or a blurry haze of chords for ideal blinding feedback? Still I must mumble under my structured breath some lyrics, and a prayer for a return to form of the unformed, that which My Bloody Valentine so endearingly.

Copyright © 2000 Andy Beta