I like to party fucking hard.
I like my rock and roll the same.
Don't give a fuck if I burn out.
Don't give a fuck if I fade away.
So back to the Motor-League with me
before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public
who live vicariously
through tortured-artist college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum.
Back to the Motor League I go.
Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a live grenade
of play-acting "anarchists" and Mommy's-little-skinheads,
death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge.
Fuck off. Who cares?
I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit.
Fuck off. Who cares
about your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn.
It never ceases to amaze me
nd as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race
to redress my own sad history
of mouthed feet.
But what have
15 years later it still reeks of ‘Swill and Chickenshit Conformists
fists in the air;
like-father, like-son "rebels" bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits.
take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics.
and stick me on a ten-speed.
Back to the Motor League.
I guess life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges. Today is good day to die.--Propagandhi, Back To The Motor League
forgot to report that my effort to catch the Furia release failed by approx. one hour and a half - the concert had started and there were still half a dozen people outside Mono trying to watch through the windows when I arrived after work on Monday. oh well. next time. Furia might have gone corporate themselves, but I still love them. the Superlove Vibrations single might not be at all representative of the sound that sold me to them, but I still love them. yeah.