Twisted pop mastermind Zach Phillips runs OSR tapes out in Brattleboro, VT and performs in several bands including Blanche Blanche Blanche, “>Better Psychics, Big French, “>Heat Wilson, and the Marshfield Set.
Respect to all working musicians in 2012 who could not toe the line, whether melancholic affect, “punk” as an aesthetic, or liberal arts thesis style artist statement standing in for musical content. Respect to musicians
who did not succumb even to dogma of their own design, who put themselves at the mercy of their work and that’s enough. And of course I am talking about GUERILLA TOSS!
Respect to RUTH GARBUS for writing inspiring songs that should be on the radio raining their probiotic blend on mass psychology, respect to RYAN POWER for his fully devastating album “I don’t want to die,” respect to Joey Pizza Slice aka SON OF SALAMI, to TYVEK for the amazing album “On Triple Beams,” to all the labels that released my music and to the glowing handful of people who have made it possible for me to release a few tapes, respect to THE HOWLING HEX for “Wilson Semiconductors” and Neil’s as-far-as-I-know-unnamed band for performing “Twin Infinitives” so good, respect to CLOUD BECOMES YOUR HAND, respect to big french
for putting up with my shit as we work on a new BBB record called “Breaking Mirrors,”
respect to GRASS WIDOW, they are absolutely killer musicians, respect to Thin Lizzy for “fighting,” I believe in the freedom song too, respect to Hartley C. White, such a wonderful person, much respect to Jon Appleton, to FAT WORM OF ERROR, to CAVE BEARS, to CHRIS COHEN, respect to GARY WAR, to MATTHEW THURBER, respect to Mark Leidner for his refreshments, to the HAPPPY JAWBONE, alway always respect to Chris Weisman (have you heard “Bentonia?”). Last night we were hangin with Kyle Thomzo and I tried to drive them home but it was too slippery. Respect to Danny B.
I had a dream the other morning that a bunch of maroon walrus-type “farm animals” were wandering out at low tide as the sun set red in the water. People were screaming, there was a hydra-headed purple “shark” winding its way around the “farm animals,” which were now running deeper into the ocean in groups of three. I ran out into the water to save them, the “shark” was upon me, the yelling, I woke up. Best not to chase lost songs, lost opportunities, lost time.
Respect to just living. A final dose of severely backhanded respect to various established cultural institutions offering, speaking generally, garbage conceptualizations of garbage trash, rehashing the same old tropes and varnishing the same old popes with the same new hopes, without you communities of hard working artists and tonal mechanics who put themselves at the mercy of their work would not stand in such sharp contradistinction.
Music has not showed itself to be a frivolous preoccupation, thanks all reminders.