Well fine then, be that way. There was a pretty small pressing of this, I think.
-Greg

No.

Posted by greg0rb on 2007-04-21 16:40:01
My Score:

I wrote this before that Polyvinyl signing news came...guess I'm gonna have to start contacting them now about the new album. Polyvinyl seems like a good fit. Now anyone that's actually heard this wanna comment?
-Greg

For one, learn how to spell Ian MacKaye's name. For two, neither of those two figures' works for the last twenty-odd years have had that much to do with punk. At least not enough to validate your statement.

I don't necessiarly agree with the original poster, but to say Ian "for the last twenty-odd years" hasn't had much to do with punk rock is pretty dumb. The Evens are more "punk" than about 99% of the bands that show up on this site, and he has been a regular mouthpiece for the community throughout the years.

Posted by youwinalemon on 2007-04-21 11:49:36
My Score:

Architecture In Helsinki rules.

Remix albums do not.

I was just joking.

-benz

""Absolutely nothing punk about this from what I can tell."

This album features both Ian Mackay and Henry Rollins. So chew on that!"

For one, learn how to spell Ian MacKaye's name. For two, neither of those two figures' works for the last twenty-odd years have had that much to do with punk. At least not enough to validate your statement.

-Will

just by saying "punkers and punkettes" you've made me believe your short story, that no one cares about, is going to be bad without even reading it.

Hey,

I'm working on a short story that involves the war-torn city of Beirut as seen by an American woman. It's for a creative writing class. I've included a small portion of it below. Can you punkers and punkettes give me your unbiased opinion on the quality of my writing? Do you find my descriptions evocative, my sentences tight? Thanks!

***Liz Weeden***

"About an hour later something wakes her. She comes out on the balcony again, telling herself to be alert. It is nearly four a.m. and she has a sense of some heavy presence, a grinding in the earth. She leans over the rail and sees a tank come chugging around the corner in the cratered street. Mounted cannon bobbing. She feels the beat of adrenaline but stays where she is and waits. She thinks it’s an old Soviet T-34, some scarred and cruddy ancient, sold and stolen two dozen times, changing sides and systems and religion. The only markings are graffiti, many years of spritzed paint. The tank moves up the street and she hears voices, sees people walking behind it. Civilians talking and laughing and well-dressed, twenty adults and half as many children, mostly girls in pretty dresses and white knee-stocking and patent-leather shoes. And here is the stunning thing that takes her a moment to understand, that this is a wedding party going by. The bride and groom carry champagne glasses and some of the girls hold sparklers that send off showers of excited light. A guest in a pastel tuxedo smokes a long cigar and does a dance around a shell hole, delighting the kids. The bride’s gown is beautiful, with lacy appliqué at the bodice, and she looks surpassingly alive, they all look transcendent, free of limits and unsurprised to be here. They make it seem only natural that a wedding might advance its resplendence with a free-lance tank as escort. Sparklers going. Other children holding roses tissued in fern. Brita is gripping the rail. She wants to dance or laugh or jump off the balcony. It seems completely possible that she will land softly among them and walk along in her pajama shirt and panties all the way to heaven. The tank is passing right below her, turret covered in crude drawings, and she hurries inside and pours another glass of melon liqueur and comes out to toast the newlyweds, calling down, “Bonne chance” and “Bonheur” and “Good luck” and “Salam” and “Skal,” and the gun turret begins to rotate and the cannon eases slowly around like a smutty honeymoon joke and everyone is laughing. The bridegroom raises his glass to the half-dressed foreigner on the top-floor balcony and then they pass into the night, followed by a jeep with a recoilless rifle mounted at the rear.
It is over too soon. She stays outside, listening to the last small rustle of their voices falling. It is stil dark and she feels a chill in the smoky hair. The city is quiet for the first time since she arrived. She examines the silence. She looks out past the rooftops, westward. There is a flash out there in the dark near a major checkpoint. Then another in the same spot, several more, intense and white. She waits for the reciprocating flash, the return fire,/but all the bursts are in one spot and there is no sound. What could it be then if it’s not the start of the day’s first exchange of automatic-weapons fire? Only one thing of course. Someone is out there with a camera and a flash unit. Brita stays on the balcony for another minute, watching the magnesium pulse that brings an image to a strip of film. She crosses her arms over her body against the chill and counts off bursts of relentless light. The dead city photographed one more time."

Enough with these fucking remix albums already

"Absolutely nothing punk about this from what I can tell."

This album features both Ian Mackay and Henry Rollins. So chew on that!

-benz

they would be much better if they were actually from Finland

Absolutely nothing punk about this from what I can tell.