I haven’t gone fishing, though I have caught a few boots… No, I’m afraid I’ve gone rogue. I’ve gone native, up the river, like Colonel Kurtz before me. I’m too much a music fan now to be a critic.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” say my former comrades still in the service, like the hipster snobs at Pitchfork or those who enlisted with the CMJ. “He’s gone and joined the muddy children in the wild. He listens to progressive rock, classic rock and even some metal now. What a waste!”
But won’t they be surprised when I emerge from the jungle, perched upon a boatload of crazy new sounds? Not as surprised as when they see the boat behind that one, and the next boat after that. I’m bringing a train of em out of the wild, down the the great gangrene, greasy Limpopo River. They’re wild and hairy. They love to rock and they’ve brought shoes with them.
Yes, boatloads of Shoes to send back to the Music Industry. We don’t need ’em anymore. We’ll still dance fine the same.