Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Evolution Issue 06
+ evolution +
+ issue six +
January 7, 1997
-:+:-------------:+:-
-+[ToC]+-
+ opening editorial ........ duct tape boy
+ oh yeah, it's 1997 now.
+ the skeen ................ duct tape boy
+ some vague angsting ...... duct tape boy
+ Bob Goes Hunting ......... Eee
+ the torture chamber
-:+:--------------:+:-
I've realized something. For the past several months, I've been so
caught up in my own life and my emotions and dealing with stuff
that I kind of forgot about other people. It took two things for
me to realize this: first, a good friend of mine informed me of
some things that I had done that I hadn't really noticed, being
caught up in my own life, and second, seeing reactions of my
friends to Derek's passing a couple of weeks ago.
I'm not the only person that matters.
-:+:-------------:+:-
I was writing this, and just about to send this out, when I
realized that it's 1997 now, and there hasn't been an issue this
year. And I sez to myself, I sez, "DTB, maybe you should add some
of that 'Happy New Year' noise or something, since, you know, it is
that time o' the year." So I sez back to myself, "nah, that's
stupid." So, without further stupidity on my part, the first issue
of 1997...
-:+:--------------:+:-
-+[the skeen]+-
Last evening, I attended a little pun krock (yes, I mean "pun
krock") show at the American Legion Hall here in Orleans.
I'd just like to point out, once again for anyone who hasn't
noticed, doesn't live on Cape Cod, or didn't hear myself or Aidan
the first time: Punk rock, as Cape Cod knows it, is dead. Not
alive.
As much as I like pun krock, the scene is very, very dead. It was
dead a long time ago, well before the mighty Cheesewheel (who had
really single-handedly carried the dead body of the Cape punk scene
for way too long) called it quits this fall.
So anyway, a number of really horrible hardcore-punk-type bands
from Boston played. I mean, really really bad. One of them were
making a hideous, arhythmic wall of noise. They weren't trying to,
which I could give them credit for if that were in fact their
intent. No, they were actually trying to keep a beat. I know this
because I was able to make out a couple of cover tunes: "Filler" by
Minor Threat, and another song I've heard a couple of times but
don't know the name of or the artists who perform it.
The last band was actually kind of good, if repetative. They were
a kind of Quicksand, Orange 9mm, Dagobah sort of band, using
various odd times and tempo changes with dense chord shapes and
textures. They were a trio, and sounded very good together, tight,
professional-like.
But guess what? Not one of these bands was actually _from_ Cape
Cod! I mean, what's the point? To prove to everyone that there is
no local scene? We already knew that, it's plainly obvious that
every band that's left, with the notable exceptions of No Siento
and The Fleece, have no talent, no energy, no emotion, no drive to
create music that people can enjoy.
What makes this "scene" even worse is the elitist attitude that
permeates it. Basically, there's a select few figureheads within
the scene, and if you're not in with their gig, you're not cool and
get ignored. Two words: fuck off. Take yr crappy attitude and go
hang out with the Nauset High School jocks, because you're just
like them, except you wear different clothes and go to shows
instead of play sports. You're exactly the same as the people who
you claim to want nothing to do with, and I have no respect for
that kind of hypocrisy.
-:+:--------------:+:-
you say you want a revolution?
well, you know
we all want to change the world
- The Beatles, "Revolution"
-:+:--------------:+:-
-+[some vague angsting]+-
I'm getting sick of playing guitar. For some reason, it doesn't
hold my interest like it always used to. Maybe it's because I'm
not in a band anymore and don't interact much with other musicians.
The fact is, I'm starting to hate the guitar. I pick it up, and I
don't even play things, I just make random notes and noises and
squeaks. I rarely play songs anymore, either ones I wrote or songs
by other bands who I love and admire.
Occasionally, I think I need a new medium of expression. I played
the drums in high school, perhaps that... maybe I could get a bass,
or a keyboard... but these all involve money, something I have
absolutely none of to spend on such "extravagances", as my mom
would call them.
Maybe I could leave skool. I'm sick of skool anyway; it doesn't
do anything for me, I don't learn things. College is a very
different species than high skool is. There's huge, impersonal,
300-person lectures, and teachers, even in smaller classes, don't
interact with students. In high skool, I could go up to any one of
my teachers after class was over and talk to them, they cared about
their students and their lives. I have yet, in 3 semesters of
college studies, to find one professor who gave a fuck about anyone
in any of their classes. What incentive do they have to teach
things to people whose existaences they are completely apathetic
about? None. And so, students don't actually learn anything.
Higher Education my ass.
I don't know. More often than not, I don't care. I don't see the
point of chasing after some big job where I can earn the
"privledge" of kissing the asses of people I hate. I don't want
that, and I know that leading such a life will certainly not make
me happy in any way. What will make me happy is enjoying my craft,
working words and sounds and molding them into emotional landscapes
that move people. I want to move people, to touch people, to
invoke emotions in them through art. You can't touch someone from
behind a desk.
-:+:--------------:+:-
we don't even care
as restless as we are
we feel the pull
in the land of a thousand guilts
- Smashing Pumpkins, "1979"
-:+:--------------:+:-
-+[Bob Goes Hunting]+-
-+[submitted by : Eee]+-
Here is a story I wrote in the 8th grade. I got an A on it.
-------
Bob Goes Hunting
by Jonathan Fortes
10/20/93
One day a man named Bob went hunting for mountain lions. In the trunk of
his car, he packed his AK-47, some rope, some ammunition and his trusty dog
Spot. It was a 15 minute drive to the hunting grounds.
When he arrived at the hunting grounds, a ranger steped up to his car and
said "Please present your identification."
Bob opened the glovebox in his car. He pulled out his pistol and said "I
don't have any identification!"
He pulled the trigger. Direct hit! He dragged the ranger's body over to
the trunk. As he opened the trunk, out jumped Spot. He took out his AK-47
and the rope. He put the body into the trunk and closed it.
He pulled out all of his equipment and started to go up the mountain with
spot. Soon, Spot waled away from Bob. Bob decided he did not need Spot.
He decided he would steal his neigbor's dog the next day.
He heard something in the bushes. Without thinking, his shot into the
bushes. Out jumped a lion holding Spot in his mouth. Bob then shot the
lion dead. Spot jumped out of the now dead lion's mouth, so Bob shot him.
He tied the lion and the dead dog together and dragged them down the
mountain. He opened the trunk of his car and threw them in with the
ranger's corpse.
When he arrived home, he said to his wife "We are going to have a nice meat
dinner tonight."
"What kind of meat?", his wife asked.
When Bob told her what they were going to eat for supper, she ran into the
bedroom, locked the door, and called the police. Three minutes later, the
swat team busted down the door and brutally shot Bob.
The End(of Bob)
-:+:-------------:+:-
this machine will not communicate
these thoughts and the strain i am under
be a world child form a circle before we all go under
and fade out again
- Radiohead, "Street Spirit (Fade Out)"
-:+:-------------:+:-
-+[the torture chamber]+-
this issue, I'll be testing out a new feature, which you may have
noticed is entitled "the torture chamber". my plan is to find
stuff that other people I know wouldn't want you to see. nothing
really mean or incriminating or anything, just something kind of
embarrassing and such.
our first subjust is a sixth-grade poem from a friend of mine.
the person's name will remain non-disclosed, but this could be
amusing nonetheless. :)
-+[blue green]+-
I am blue green, the color of the ocean, of precious gleaming
jewels, encrusted with greenish rust. Blue green is the color
of people's eyes, and often the color of surprise, of little
flowers row by row blowing in the gentle sea breeze.
Blue green is a flexible color, add touch of gray, it becomes no
duller, but the color of the sky when a storm draws near. Blue
green is a color that describes many things,
seaweed, and candy and butterfly's wings, chinese silk and fragile
robin's eggs.
Of small mountain bluebirds, who at any sign of danger,
take to the sky,
and flee.
But most of all, blue green
is me.
-:+:-------------:+:-
welp, that's it for ish 6. remember to spread the word about evo..
encourage your lazy friends to write me and get their own
subscription so they don't have to huddle around your computer
anymore (i'm _certain_ this is a problem for most of you). again,
submissions are welcome (i have to write less is people send me
stuff :), so send 'em on in. catch you later.
+ duct tape boy +
-:+:-------------:+:-
+ evolution +
zaphod@sidehack.gweep.net
P.O. Box 1631
Orleans, MA 02653
(c) 1997 60Hz Productions, a division of Angst Communications.
Angst Communications is a registered trademark, used under license
from Mono Boy Records.
