Matt Sharp vocals
Rod Cervera electric and acoustic guitars
Jim Richards moog and arp synthesizers
Kevin March drums
a movement of decadence and celebration drifting loosely in and of short days and long nights in the back of a taxi rolling through scenes of afterhour discos and all night sex shows a quiet house without telephones or english stepping out of the darkness of a club into the harsh noon light shaking all responsibility, staying out of your head all day songs written in bathroom stalls, narrow alleyways and cheap hotels lazing around far from everyone under an assumed name, smoking hundreds of cigarettes… laughter lost in the haze in restaurants at midnight long conversations that let the day pass by slowly… reckless evenings homelessness, friendship, and silence… in and out of focus sound of old music boxes running out of steam, while the tension before the concert builds sing-along drinking songs, rock’n’roll shuffles, trances, anthems, epic ballads the electricity of the opening blast, thrusting you into this world musicians, transvestites, writers, dancers, painters, bartenders, d.j.’s, and yourself the warmth of the sun through a dirty windshield… lyrics that are in the moment music that is a catalyst. talking you into situations where you wouldn’t normally be allusions to drugs, affairs, and old european trains… sexuality a freedom in diversity… the absinthe clarifies the importance of albums in our lives the sound in the background as memories roll people, places, concerts, parties… where you were… who you were with more energetic, more open, more aggressive, more optimistic, more explosive, more… just an excuse to get together mysterious, romantic, and glamorous zoom out, pull out and see the direction you’re heading pop stars that slide in the studio discreetly, dirty studios at 4 a.m. familiar faces blow in and out casually the rentals are a place, not a band, a place to collaborate… hang out and create.
I don’t understand it didn’t produce it or create it but she said I directed it…then the train leaves from Kensal Greene Donna Matthews, Petra Haden, Tim Wheeler, Maya Rudolph, Damon Albarn, Chris Shaw Rivers Cuomo, Miki Berenyi, Sean and Paul… and a hundred others… all drift in and out into underground studios all over London… briefly in New York, Los Angeles and Boston the century closes down and Matrix is the only place left standing andy’s yelling “come on lads, let’s have it!” boys made the music without expectations… without interference later the women arrived… days, months, years… I don’t know and he can’t remember this era we are coming into, you can see it from everywhere… in the clubs, in film, in art the ability to experience a moment without having to look over your shoulder sing out of tune, cheat on our soul mates, dance wildly, and don’t care who’s watching no more endless amounts of sarcasm, irony’s lost, bitterness gone, guilt gained/forgotten you put everything at risk: your money, health, sanity, future and all your relationships family, friends, old band mates, girlfriends, record execs… and the music press… everyone given shelter, removed, uprooted, and lost . . . getting by and breaking through couch to couch, place to place, studio to studio… day to day… and disco to disco to disco high speed photographs taken with hidden cameras… the pills are in the kitchen the movement of the smoke that slides down your throat… the relief it brings drift out somewhere off the main path, away from what you’re accustomed to go out… drop out… phase out… and at 5 in the morning, pick up the pace poems left on answering machines… studios built in churches there’s no need to force it… it…it will happen naturally welcomed, embraced, and dancing without cynicism for the first time in your life children sing in the afternoon. …blocks away you crawl back into bed with your cats sleeping in the day… living and writing at night shakers and tambourines, electric and acoustic guitars… old pianos and dime store synths laughing, singing, jumping, deceiving, and sleeping with you… I heard you singing high on the sly with a bottle of Ed’s red. it was a passionate scene. hat was all about well… something, whatever they criticized. I slid away at the end of the run… incognito calm and peaceful with not much to go back to . . . the pharmacy is low but there is still time for one more disco they take you in and say ” this is your home,” but you know you have to leave the alarm keeps going off… and you keep hitting the snooze “7 more minutes, please” … “seven more minutes”