Billy Corgan, Kim Gordon & More: The Weak In “Indie” Rock

I haven’t posted one of these in what seems like (and most likely has been!) years. I take a few minutes to poke around some music blogs and Dickfork, then make fun of all the silly musicians your little brother can’t stop talking about for five fucking minutes for the love of God. After all, someone has to keep those damned egos in check. If no one else wants to make fun of those Vampire Weekend fags in their sweaters and scarfs, I’ll do it. I’ll write it in Entertainment Weekly celebrity-gossip-section fashion, too.

• When we last left “America’s Sweetheart” Billy Corgan, he was photographed leaving someplace or another with Jessica Simpson. Now he’s featured in an article in this month’s Rolling Stone (the one with the snowboard guy on the cover). I read the article on my lunch break today, and let me say — I haven’t laughed that hard since that rebellious young turk (read: dongless dork) from the Arcade Fire smashed his guitar to piece (no, that’s not a typo, that wimp couldn’t damage a guitar even if someone else broke it for him first) on Saturday Night Live. In his RS profile, Corgan whines about how he isn’t as beloved as he should be, berates blogs for making fun of him when he’s clearly the most talented songwriter of any generation ever, blames everyone he’s ever worked with for ruining his musical career, pleads for attention by discussing suicide, boasts that he could write hit songs and recapture his glory at any time if he wanted, cries more about how his credibility is shattered, and finally wonders if maybe his records would sell better if he died. It’s too good for words. That’s why I’ve devoted this many to it already. I thought about ripping out the article and tucking it away somewhere for the next time a great tragedy befalls me (death of a loved one, destroyed friendship or relationship, etc.). Then I realized that Billy Corgan isn’t just the funny trainwreck you think about during really tough times, he’s the cocaine you need lots of little bumps of to keep you feeling endlessly peppy and elated.

• In the very same issue of Rolling Stone, Bob Nastanovich of the once-relevant band Pavement was quoted as saying something like, “I don’t think I’m capable of getting a girlfriend unless she’s a Pavement fan.” I find this statement ironic because most of Nastanovich’s fans are dudes who can’t get girlfriends. Pavement is not music for slackers (as common sources would have you believe), it’s music for loser hipsters. It’s hard to imagine Bob Nastanovich actually dating someone. I mean, at some point the girl would get tired of his antics and just stab him in the throat, right? What with his always walking around the house shaking maracas like an epileptic, plus all those other wonderful crazy hijinks that made him such a displeasure to watch on stage. Oh, there he goes banging his stupid fucking tambourine again! Shut the hell up, Bob, I’m trying to listen to a song here! Imagine how when he’s out to eat with his girlfriend, she tries to engage him in conversation but Bob just yells every fourth or fifth word back at her for effect. Ladies, gays, look at the guy in this video and tell me that he’s boyfriend material. I pity anyone who purchased a Pavement reunion ticket. Not only did you have to pay shitty Ticketmaster service charges because the band’s cashing-in on your pitiful obsession, you’re going to end up having your idealized version of a Pavement show massacred by a stupid assclown playing with children’s toys.

• There’s something wryly amusing about Kim Gordon releasing a book of photos and paintings which capture her visions of audiences from the stage. I think it’s…oh, right! Kim Gordon sucks at everything else she does! That’s what’s funny about her trying her hand at a new artistic medium. She can’t sing, she plays the bass for fuck’s sake, she’s in Sonic Youth, and she’s never done anything to establish herself as a fine artist other than to casually drop modern-art buzz names in the press. She’s just a wannabe beatnik who has ridden the coattails of that dork Thurston Moore for three decades (as if his coattails were even worth clinging to), shat out one of his kids, and made it impossible for me to get through a single Sonic Youth record without skipping a song. If you showed me these watercolor interpretations of what Kim Gordon apparently sees while on stage and asked me what I thought of them, I’d say, “You’re fucking kidding me, right? Kim Gordon didn’t paint those. Your dog did. Please, dude, tell me your dog — which eats its own shit twice a day — or your retarded nephew made those. Don’t tell me Kim Gordon did that. Because if you tell me that Kim Gordon — a fully-fucking-functional 57-year old woman — painted those, and that some crazy accident hasn’t made her a complete vegetable, and she still has use of her arms and legs, and that she isn’t mentally handicapped in any way, I’d tell you you’re a goddamned liar and I’d kick your ass.”

• A few quick thoughts intended to ruin the rest of your day: Somewhere out there Sufjan Stevens is still making music. That guy from The Decemberists just finished another book: prepare to be bored by a double-concept album. CocoRosie are still racist little pig even recording for the evil Sub Pop corporation now. Someday your children will dig up a copy of one of your Bright Eyes albums and realize why they hated you so much: Bob Dylan was boring enough the first time around and then you gave the time of day to a tone-deaf brat whose obvious thievery falls just short of calling himself “Bob Dylan”. The Arcade Fire are still Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska. Vampire Weekend are still Haircut One Hundred. Everything else you think you like isn’t good at all. Hopefully you’ll realize this once you grow the fuck up and exit your insincere-posturing-for-social-status stage.

Serena Maneesh – I Just Want To See Your Face