I walk in half way through a raging rock set. I have no idea who they are. I have no idea what they want. I think they want…something, someone, anything. No. They clearly are trying to get at whatever it is. They clearly know what they want. They really want it. What is their reasoning? Obsession.

[…Compulsory overly-lazy-to-the-point-of-giveacrap comparison: This band sound like Stooges wanking over Strokes via filthy production that sounds too many decades old…]

Isn’t this exactly what hundreds, thousands, millions of other ‘new’ bands are peddling at the moment? Why will you believe me when I profess to have seen another band in this style that might actually mean something? Why should you care? They are just another ‘The’ band, after all.

There are too many drugs in my body; too much alcohol creating discourse. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. You need not care.

There are some things that matter in life. Music is one of them. Of that there can be no deliberation. Miss Black America matter. They have fans. They have fans who know they matter. Is this not enough for me to leave all my aspirations on the road. I should see them for the band that they ought to be. I should see them for the band that so many know they are. I should be able to close my ears and know where they could be. So many have spoken of them, yet I can not see them.

It doesn’t matter. You care.