Classical Indie Rock Fan Fiction

Skip James: The Power of a Man with His Guitar

Nicely composed essay on a personal hero of mine…




           When people think of the blues, what sort of concepts come to mind? The expression of pain born out of racial oppression and everyday life? Stripped down instrumental arrangements? What always comes to certain minds is the indelible mark that the guitar, and more importantly its players, had (and continues to have) on the genre. These influences would eventually to the inception of another groundbreaking music form, the music of jazz. Oftentimes, when speaking of blues guitarists, names such as Lightnin’ Hopkins and Robert Johnson will arise. One name that is sometimes forgotten in this list is Skip James. This paper intends to focus on Skip’s influence on Delta Blues (arguably the most important blues form that was a precursor to jazz) through his playing and songwriting, and also analyze his works Devil Got My Woman and Crow Jane. The hope is that, through these analyses, it…

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“The Exceptionally American Concentration of President Donald Trump”

I gotta admit Trump and his administration were so driven to wipe out illegal immigration he was not above sending the children (“69,550 migrant children held in U.S. government custody over the past year…[of] infants, toddlers, kids and teens…” according to an Associated Press report from November 12, 2019…”) of these inherently evil, illegal (especially them brown skinned ones—mostly Mexicans of course…) immigrants to concentration camps on the U.S./Mexican border.

Now, I’m sure you all agree that if, say, y’all were having a feud with, I don’t know, some neighbor newly moved in to the area (right next door to you—just your luck!) the most effective, expedient, & demoralizing action (to your adversary) one might take as a rational, logical freedom loving American would be to hit em where it REALLY hurts—by abducting their children to some undisclosed location. I would imagine this would be especially effective by targeting the younger children.

This kills two birds with one stone. The illegal alien parents are immediately taught the theory of American exceptionalism by direct example; you have their undivided attention,oh, and their children too.

Speaking of which, well, shit—chalk it up to collateral damage. I mean it’s nothing personal toward the kids. Especially the younger ones. Yes, many of these children will undoubtedly develop some version of PTSD, but democracy is hell.


วิเชียรมาศ or: Jade: Moon Diamond

Ten times a day i reflexively feel you enter the room, Jade; likewise yr histrionic snoring (my favorites were the ones that sounded like a continuous succession of gentle ‘oohs’ & ‘ahhs’, (but just as delightful if i’m neing honest were of the sorta loud pig snorting genre…) late at night while i read away the hours.

And now…this is precisely the problem i’ve always seemed to have with existence: all those lousy hours i’ve filled with melancholy, paranoia, self-loathing, hypocrisy, detachment, and generalized dread and unfounded fear.*

Jade, i still don’t even really understand that you are truly gone, so this denial both helps me pay less attention to these fucking long consecutive, continuous hours that i must either take for granted, or just finally, forever, reject this collective agreement of all this slow work under the gun of suffering in silence that many of us fucking freaks subscribe to.

Well, sure a wicked tired cliche that last bit, but that’s precisely the feeling i’m trying to get across to this….um….white, rectangular typing/posting space: an airless, virtual conduit of, to, and for the ‘void’.

Oh, jade, i AM wicked tired. i AM a cliche.

Without you here with me, Jade, those empty, indifferent, unfeeling (because, yo, time is a human construct; it’s a byproduct or human civilization although when reality and most people are welcome to go fuck themselves i like to pretend that ‘hours’ & the relentless, entropy addicted ‘time’ is an apex predator. an abstract, spooky haunty great white shark.)

Lately, Jade, i’m just not convinced that i’m cut out for the ‘long con’. i’ve pretty much always believed that, but never told anyone about it. Goodnight, little Princess Moon Diamond. If I could will one thing to be so when I am finally accomplished in whatever this physical realm had required of my flesh & blood presence endowed with agency; channel or focus that “essence” of what creative energy force I thought I once had, and so continue to seek this ineffable totem in all & everything if only to find courage for the grace of inspired obsession!

Well, being who & what I am: the personification of a minor, shallow wildly meandering and exceedingly slow-flowing mountain stream erratically & blindly a private, personal champion method of aesthetic creation whether musical, textual, or in unitymay conceivably still possess deep within my heart/psyche it would

Shanti, วิเชียรมาศ.

“A Totem” by The Vima Tresna
How Green Was My Valley (1941): John Ford, Director