Friday, September 8, 2017


Just a few minutes ago, out in front of the apartment complex, a half dozen hids were strolling uo the street. It was too dark to really see them, so I didn't bother to look up. (I was reading by the light of one of those clip-on book lights, otherwise known as the literate smoker's best friend.) Then I heard it. One of them had a boombox playing some new age-y chanting shit. Yanni type stuff. It kinda made my skin crawl. That was it. Tonight belonged to the Spits.

I'd never heard of the Spits when my friend Erik gave me one of their CDs. It must have been the mid-nineties. It was from his own collection and he literally forced it on me, insisting it was right up my alley. Alley or not, it was a racket, and it still reminds me of all of those Midwest bands that the Wisconsin contingent out here periodically raved about, but everyone else was totally ambivalent about. Who the fuck cared about bands like that when there were West Coast bands that were just as noisy but looked cooler? But that's pretty much what was cool about bands from the Midwest. They didn't give a shit about stuff like that. And, short of fanzines, there was no where else you were going to hear about them other than from someone who saw them back home. I mean, all these Wisconsin people (there were about a half dozen of them) that hung out in our ragtag group of friends, they were proud of their Midwest roots, and if that meant you heard about some kook that called himself Reverend Norb every fifteen minutes, so be it. It was just another part of the package, just like beer brats and Chili John's.


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