Monday, March 3, 1997


Thrown back constantly on unrewarding endeavors (filling vast egglike shapes, organizing a ten-foot rectangle with its empty corners suggesting Siberian steppes in the coldest time of the year), 

Music has always been suspiciously addicted to termite-art tendencies. Good work usually arises where the creators seem to have no ambitions. A peculiar fact about termite- tapeworm-fungus-moss art is that it goes always forward eating its own boundaries, and, likely as not, leaves nothing in its path other than the signs of eager, industrious, unkempt activity.

The common quality or defect which unites all good bands is fear, a fear of the potential life, rudeness, and outrageousness of an album. Coupled with their storage vault of self-awareness and knowledge of music history, this fear produces the chaos edge. 

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