A Book? Who’d Read It?

Lately, I’ve been sifting through my archives looking through all the drivel I put down with the goal of assembling a book. My own Best of Joe Ehrbar anthology, The Joe Ehrbar Musical Companion, Select Writings from 1996-2003. Funny, I know. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to sell it to the wider public or foist it on any reluctant family members. It’s simply a self-serving vanity project, an older-school version of this blog, but printed on actual paper and packed between two cardboard covers. I’ll have a few copies bound and that’ll be it. That way, if I need to refer to something I wrote back in the day, it’ll be smiling at me from the bookshelf. No longer will I have to rummage through hundreds of newspapers and tabloids—I can simply pack up all the papers and send them off to their final reward: the recycling plant, where they can be spooled as toilet paper. I’m not sure when said book will be published, but I’m happy to know that you’re not actually waiting for it. There are many pieces to review—oh, and I’m not merely reprinting them verbatim; I'm editing them, making my problem children a little less problematic. And in some cases, I’m actually rewriting stories, or at least adding to them.

Which brings me to the little orphan below. I doubt I'll include it in the book. Lucky for you, you can read it here. I wrote it for the defunct Seattle rock magazine Backfire, which was published by Dawn Anderson. I don’t quite remember when the piece ran, probably in 2002. It was a revival of a column I did in The Rocket called Demo Joe, in which I’d ask bands to send me their demos and in return I would constructively eviscerate them, usually from a third-person point of view. I’d like to think that since none of these bands exists today or did anything of merit following their appearance in my inane little column that they took my advice and did something more meaningful with their time, like TV-watching or alcoholism. (I should talk.) Here's the copy:

Hey vocal guy of Pistol for a Paycheck, Demo Joe suggests you use it—point it at the feet of your sloth-ly band members and squeeze the trigger. Wake them up; put them on notice; whip them into shape; do whatever it takes to get their drooping asses moving. PFAP’s vocalist really wants to wage blitzkrieg bop, but the rest of his band isn’t so sure they want to get off the couch and join him, and as a result their demo suffers from mid-tempo malaise. Remember, loud and fast rules, boys…Blue Star Creeper have some promise and they’re trying to find their own voice in this great sea of mediocrity. But there’s no spark or spontaneity to be heard on their submission, and they sound bored. Come on, people, it’s supposed to be fun…Monkey and the Butt Puppet probably think their pretty hilarious, Demo Joe surmises, by mouthing such drivel as, “I didn’t mean to butt fuck you,” or, “I want to fuck your mom until the break of dawn.” Classy, guys. Demo Joe is just pleased as poop you molested a perfectly good acoustic guitar and masturbated all over an unsuspecting 4-track to render this musical abortion. But if you want to keep fisting your assholes with such stupidity, do yourself a favor and buy a Frogs record—maybe then you’ll learn how to truly shock your audience with lewd juvenilia that’s exponentially more clever…Horrible’s bio says it all; here’s an excerpt: "Khjkreraklelhnlirj; ekbfhklhb; lkj; kljwkljljw; ljeb; l; rlejb; ebrljbr!lj." Well put. Unfortunately, Horrible aren’t as bad as they’d like you to think. We’ve heard this power-trio-produced power-pop punk plenty, but the band actually cares about the music, and as a result cast songs that, while fishing conventional waters, are at least baited with serrated hooks…Daddies Little Girl are in need of a lyricist. As it stands, their songs are fairly stupid to be heard so prominently in the mix. Listen, guys, if you’ve got lame lyrics, at least sing them in French. At least then you’ll sound like Les Thugs, all be it like their retarded nephews, but anything’s better than this…As for Psychonaut, Demo Joe has this advice: Buy yourself a Throbbing Gristle album, tighten your lyrics, and ease up on the distortion. The electronic barrage is effective, but subtlety is a virtue. Also, if you’re gonna complain about the world sucking eggs, show some insight. Or maybe you are; it’s just that it’s hard to hear through all that distortion-saturated alfalfa obscuring the meat….