Hello there, my name is David Clarke. There are countrymen, journeymen and fellow travelers. Those rootless, in-between types, (gypsies - GASP!) live in the cracks workman once filled with the cares and delusions of this world. Defying definitive despondency (and all conventions of alliteration) these whom-so-evers and stand-alones cry smiling. So why listen? There's a marketplace of wonders and inventions at your doorstep, dear reader!
There are friends and enemies of modern music. The lines on the map are drawn - though this doesn't mean some aren't guilty of....espionage? Our wares and worries are your best intentions. And what may those be? The pulse of the dragon; you can feel it on the speaker.
We are hesitant to commit our slacker-selves to any sort of timetable from which one could expect regular blogilicious bootycalls. However, we know that you're all hungry and barely stop for a bite - so we'll say, "Once in a while? How's that sound, Spencer?" His counterpart mumbles into the ruddy surf of a cup of coffee.
Let's say every couple of weeks, approximately, you should be able to see us in fine form as we discuss, dissects and derange all of your most jealously guarded assumptions about listening to people like us. With regards to, uh, you know, rock LPs from the last thirty years or so. You know, Ian Curtis' suicide, Greg Ginn (!) - nothing before the last New Wave. In each vaunted entry, we will showcase, triumphantly, a record from yesteryear or today. Maybe we'll even feed you a track'r'two to fully illustrate selected arguments.*
Let the games for May commence and the daisy chains concatenate! Stay here for awhile, dear, 'til the radio sings something familiar! HURRAH!
*You can also rest assured that none of our reviews will be as jarring and jam-headed as this so-called 'mission statement'. We're just a little giddy, thas' all.
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