GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN John McEntire,
and take the other 600 members of the Tortoise / Isotope 217 / Sea and Cake / Gastr del Sol / & so on, etc., conglomerate with you.

The other day I went into the bathroom and there was a mammoth unflushed shit in the toilet, complete with corns, peanuts, hair, and I think there was even a tooth in there. And then the weirdest thing happened. A bunch of ass holes ran in and started congratulating this pile of crap. Oh, wait. That was all of Chicago, applauding the mealy bunch of hipsters punishing us with what they are pretentious enough to call post-rock.

Hey, here’s a news flash for you, John McEntire: you stink. I have had enough of your ambient atmospheric collages and 60-minute soundscapes, and I would now like you and the rest of your sappy electro trust fund soma fucks to run lemming-style off a cliff, please. Song deconstructionists, my ass. More like a new age-style masturbation sound track for a bunch of aimless, world-wearied, overindulged scenesters. You need to spend less time forming new bands and more time trying to come up with a new song. Cause, yeah, we heard that one already. Like 784 times. Just because we fell asleep half way through it doesn’t mean we don’t remember it.

“Hey, dude! I just came up with a new time signature! 13/4!! Let’s repeat it, uhhhh, four times!!” Guess what Stravinsky? Four times thirteen divided by four equals 13 bars of 4/4. Doh!! Give me break, you pretentious sons of bitches.

Normally I would say, hey whatever floats your boat: if you want to shove a vibraphone up your ass and fart through a vocoder, more power to you. But this Chicago royalty routine that’s getting your dick sucked all over town is really chaffing my ass. Who do you think you are, John John? This ain’t Camelot, and John John’s taint is still floating around Gay Head somewhere. Really, what do I get for my $20 ticket besides hemorrhoids and a migraine? A smoke-free audience of hairstyles and vintage gas station jackets drinking high balls and watching a bunch of assholes trying to figure out just how many boxes you can plug a guitar into, and whatever the fuck else you do to make that minute of music that you then repeat 468 times, somehow mesmerizing the critics into calling this endless torture a revolutionary effort to “eschew the indulgent showmanship of rock”?

Oh hell, no. Give me some elaborate showmanship, please! Give me Mike Lust swinging out onto stage from a vine. But please, no more shimmering lush landscapes or quirky over repeated melodies. Because I just can’t take it. That’s right, John McEntire. It is time for you to pack up your floor to ceiling vintage analog synths and get the hell out of town.