Fucking Moody Just Can't Shut Up About His Stupid Fucking Band

I've never read one of your books but it's an okay CD... so please... Chut up! Chut up! Gahhhh!!!!

First, let me say that the Wingdale Community Singers are not actually a band. A band, in my view, is a group of young men (with, perhaps, the token woman bass player or frontperson), who go for weeks without showering, who daily labour with the transportation of amplifiers, and who have gargantuan appetites for drugs and alcohol. There is ringing in their ears. They are trying to be true to their girlfriends or wives without success. They spend weeks in a van, driving late into the night. They sleep on the floors of like-minded individuals in far-flung towns. Inevitably, one of them overdoses. But the Wingdale Community Singers are no such organisation. We have no rhythm section, neither bassist nor drummer; we only have one very small amplifier, or else we just make use of whatever amplifier is lying around; we rarely play live. In fact, at the time of writing these remarks, our live appearances number exactly four.

It is true that our lead singer, or the person who sings most of the lead vocals, is a woman, Hannah Marcus, but she is a woman of dignity and poise, who wrote the vast majority of the music on our recording, and she usually performs sitting down. She has never once taken off her blouse for the audience or a publicity photo.

We have all ridden in a van together only twice, and since two of us are vegetarians, there were no late-night stops for hamburgers and beer. I don't drink at all, and neither of the others drinks very much. Two-thirds of us are well into our 40s, and David Grubbs, the lead guitar player, has a baby whom he adores, and so we don't stay out late at night, unless some club is insisting that we start at midnight. We all bathe regularly. We have no groupies.

BANGBANGBANG = sound of blogger unloading semi-automatic into head