So I was at a show this week and the opener was an foreign indie act with an obscure, over-looked genius rep. Now I don’t know their records at all and they run with bands I do like, but I was dramatically under-whelmed. All the songs sounded essentially the same, they were performed with the same “dramatic” gimmicks throughout and the bass player kept trying to wander off the stage for some reason. The mixed crowd was notably unimpressed, save for a couple really trying-too-hard hipsters, but here’s the thing, they weren’t a “bad” band, but something was off, in fact i think i could have “fixed” them if they were willing to cede absolute creative control to me for say 6 months. Effing bouncher refused to pass along my card.

Anyways it made me pick up my new project: releasing imaginary albums. I may not be the musician those guys are, which frankly means I really suck, but I’m sick of that stopping my rock ’n’ roll dreams. Here’s my first one…

Indiscriminate Eastern European Accent

“The Feast of Maximum Occupancy” — Ancient seaside march that stumbles carelessly along before passing out on the steps of its derelict shanty. The stylistically incongruous “fake” opener.

“Fuzzy at Best” — Ironic power litany for your best friend’s ex. The girl you can’t get over is probably the one you can’t too well remember.

“Dip My Toe In and See (Hey Now)” — Unnecessarily distorted blues innuendo. Dirty filth? Or lazy nonsense? We’ll let the RIAA decide.

“Seen This One Before” — Taunt, slashing break-up pop. A bouncy kiss-off for everybody who’s ever spent hours in a Blockbuster arguing over whose turn it is to pick the evening’s rental.

“Closing The West” — Empty-saloon piano sorrow for a changing world. How can there be any more cowboys if there ain’t no more Indians?

“Mailer Damien” — Thankfully brief psychedelic-electronica interlude. More backwards effects than a “Twin Peaks” dream sequence.

“Punch In” — Shuttering anti-shit job manifesto. Crammed with bile and stabbed keyboard flares, pays more than a little respect to EC. Handclaps abound.

“Robot Abe Lincoln” — Close-up the lake house and get ready to cry. Works out the frustrations of autumn and the failure to do great things. Warm guitar buzz scratches like an old wool sweater.

“Still So Shallow” — Ramped-up Stones boogie drifts off to Mars as a bitter bastard turns 27 and wonders if life’s ever gonna start.

p.s. — are you a real or fake band looking to have a decidedly fake album produced by me??? Send an email and keep your eyes peeled for more upcoming releases from Barbicide Records.