8:30 PM on a Sunday night and I’m sitting around after a long day doing a job for the past 9 hours. I’d just taken a few bong rips of some outdoor Blue Dream I got for cheap, and I turned off the burner on the stove I’d lit with the intention of cooking something to eat. I had no appetite. I realized I was starting to feel a bit bummed – a small, empty depression that sometimes lingers over me; nothing severe, but there.
From the opening loopy guitar riff I knew the music was all I would need to lift me up. It’s amazing that music can do that. It’s not the first time, for sure, and I hope it won’t be the last. I doubt it will.
As for the empty existential voids we sometimes find ourselves in, well fuck it. But I say that now with a smile on my face. That’s the right attitude, but it’s sometimes elusive. However, it is always there.
The fundamental truth that we all share is that we are both the slaves and masters to our personal narratives. The ways we navigate the confluences of our experiences and our thoughts about our experiences are the narrative structures of the lives we all live.
As for the weed, Sleater-Kinney and whether or not I’m going to eat tonight, well I’ll probably cook up some spinach and onions in olive oil and lemon juice, and maybe that will be enough. I’ll have some yogurt later as a snack, and maybe I’ll have an orange.
No Cities To Love is the first truly great album of the young and already fucked year we decided long ago to call ‘2015.’ It is really vibrant, alive, has all the twisted riffs and weird guitar effects one could ask for and relentless drums that keep all the madness locked in place as a collection of tight rock songs. I’m not going to be stupid and call this the album of the year, but if we get more than 3 or 4 albums this good in 2015, it will, at the very least, be a great year for music.