This Chilton solo weirdness prolly being my next coupla-year-long excavation, albums-wise. This is some of the most self-defeating, anxiety-attack-y, drunk-y-as-fuck-y
O’Rourke’s solo albs never, necessarily, having been my favorite aspect of his catalog, I’m nonetheless
My feelings about Chandler weren’t not never sterling, strong, flabby, wank-y and drunk-y.
So far, so-so.
We don’t publish much on this website, anymore, but when we do it seems to always feature some Smashing Pumpkins content. Why? Why? Are they my new Eagles, the outfit that elicits so much guttural hate inside of me that I am helpless before them, like some soon-to-be-stoned onlooker just now focusing in on Medusa?
Duh-what? I dunno anything about Ms. Wigmore, but I know I’m glad that Ryan Adams remains on the bench. But why don’t the Cardinals make their own, standalone, Ry-Ry-less elpee?
Wall-to-wall 70s greatness, notwithstanding the intensifying tendency towards pinup-y actress reportage and photodocumentation that’ll doubtless separate the 2nd from the 3rd-wave feminists, among other things.