Ladies and gents, I spent this entire morning — literally HOURS — talking with a visiting family friend about the band The Smiths. Which, surprisingly, was as potently energizing as several cups of coffee. Who knew?
The reason for the rather epic discussion is that — and I can’t even believe how incredibly awesome this is — Jamie’s best friend from his college days, Ravi (whose last name happens to be Krishnaswami, which is, like, only the best last name EVAH), is starting up A SMITHS TRIBUTE BAND IN NYC. Let me emphasize: a TRIBUTE band, NOT a cover band (which makes all of it that much more awesometastic, in my view).
I KNOW! You’re trembling with excitement, aren’t you?
Tell me I look like Johnny Marr. C’mon. Do it.
And dude, have you listened to The Smiths lately? It will probably surprise none of you that I was, back in my high school days (see: three eons ago), an obsessive Smiths fan. With the help of a twelve-step program and the support of friends and family, I did finally break that addiction. But in the past ten years, every time I very occasionally put on, say, The Queen Is Dead or Meat Is Murder, I again realize: Hey, this shit is still really fucking good! It wasn’t just that I was a big whineypants self-obsessed teenager. No, I am now a big whineypants self-obsessed adult, AND I LOVE IT.
And when you think about it, The Smiths really are the perfect pick for Tribute Banddom. They, as a band, symbolically bear a unique, aromatic blend of cheese and nostalgia, along with great music and a psychotically rabid fan base. Fish in a barrel, my friends.
IT IS, PUT SIMPLY, GENIUS. I AM PRO IT.
So go listen to the demos over at MySpace (thankfully, no scrolling backgrounds or seizure-inducing flashing gifs involved), and tell me that doesn’t sound pretty spot-on. SO I CAN THEN TELL YOU HOW FUCKING WRONG YOU ARE, DAMMIT.
I’m now going to go listen to Louder Than Bombs. Alone. In my bedroom. Bathed in gladioli. While reading Oscar Wilde. And cry.
