The Party's Over
Jump for joy or fall down on your knees in despair, I don't give a shit: I'm putting on my pajamas, strapping on my favorite sleep mask, and going to bed. FOR GOOD. This will be the last installment of It's My Party until it's reborn as a work of "fiction" called Never Mind the Cha Cha: The Real It's My Party. Calm down.
Why now, you ask? Well, take a look at the article directly above this column for the best answer. Hear the voice of the person who wrote that show preview, the one about love songs and such? That's a better representation of who I am today, not the hung-over, finger-waggin', ranting hothead chewing her way through this gossipy space. (And this is a space reserved for gossip, mind you.) The schizophrenia of writing in two different voices was driving me crazy for real, and frankly, I've outgrown that little sasspot's mean streak. I'm also tired of hearing this: "You know, I've always assumed you were an awful bitch, but you're actually kinda nice!" I know you meant well, so don't feel bad. See?
In its place will debut a new column called Some Candy Talking, which, though still written by yours truly, won't cause anyone to pull back a bloody stump after I've bitten the hand that feeds. More directly, I couldn't be happier with the state of Seattle's music scene these days. Tons of great bands and tons of great people help to make my little world a living paradise. So unless you froth up the unisex toilet with your stinky boy-pee and don't flush, or screw over one of my friends (do it and I promise your filthy underwear will be strung from here to the U.K.), I don't need to devote 600 words of space to bitching each week.
Some things about this space shall remain constant, such as the fact that it will favor Capitol Hill, Belltown, and the in-between area encompassing Graceland and Re-bar, so get over it already. I do drag my ass out to Ye Olde Towne now and again--and thank God I did last Saturday to see the super great Purty Mouth. When X cover band Y was on stage I got to see not only one person fall down, but two when the guy standing next to the initial tumbler got caught up in all the flailing and also went down spectacularly. D. P. and I shared a simpatico smile.
This space will still be dedicated to gossip, as in who got signed--Hint Hint has gone with Suicide Squeeze--who's putting together a new band--Dan and Mike from godheadSilo and Spencer of Murder City Devils have chosen the long-ass moniker Triumph Of Lethargy Skinned To Death Alive for their new collaboration--or club news, like that lovable Frank Nieto, the man who transformed the Crocodile from Dudley Manlove Quartet clubhouse to glorious bastion of indie rock, will move on to manage Chop Suey. He'll no doubt do an ace job as El Jefe, but I hope he'll have a hand in bringing more rock shows to the club, too. (No offense to Chop Suey booker Steven Severin.)
Finally, sometimes I'll have sad news to report: Former Delusions guitarist Dave Voss passed away on May 27 in Macomb, Illinois, where he was pursuing a master's degree. He was 35. Before playing in the Delusions, whom Built to Spill took round the globe, Voss also played in Happy Stars, Bone Cellar, Mugwump, Yab Yum, Way Beyond, the Groceries, Orange Peeler, and Daily Values. Dave, I hope it was a sunny day.
