Fuck Spin Magazine

More ideas from the hip failures at Spin Magazine: comparing shit to other, unrelated shit for no goddamned reason whatsoever!!!1 Hey you fuckin' kids, wanna make your own Spin album review? Here's a shit-by-numbers kit that'll have you snorting printing ink searching for a way to kill the pain of your existance, just like if you were a staffer at Spin:

1) Fuckin' worthless adjectives. Add a few! It's not just a piano it's a "watery" piano. If a band has done cocaine, then their songs are "cocaine tight" or "cocaine drawn" or some other awkward attempt to use "cocaine" as an adjective. Example: if I wrote an album all of my songs would be referred to as "PCP-and-gas-soaked-rag tight".

2) Comparisons to genres of music which is in no way related to the album you're reviewing. If there are any kind of sampled drums on the record, you can bet some fuck at Spin will call it "Dubstep-y". Is there a slow song that has reverbed-out guitar on it? Congratulations! It is now "jazz influenced", mostly because no one at Spin has ever actually made eye contact with a real jazz record, or black subculture, in their entire fuckin' lives. And No, Al Jolson in blackface doesn't count. And if you can't think a genre to compare it to...



3) Make up your own genres, however baffling they might be to anyone with half of a brain left. After all, every band can't be "80s-influenced and DIY-minded" can they? Don't know what "alt-metal" is? Neither did the reviewer who put that into a review of the last Killing Joke record. Shit man, I could do this all day. Just name a band. The Strokes? "neo-garage." Nirvana? "proto-trash". Destroyer? Preemie-folktronica. The hyphen is your friend here--it will make your insane bullshit seem plausible to people who aren't paying attention to anything but the tits in the liquor ad on page 3 (aka most of Spin's readers). Fuck-you!

4) Vocabulary--add a few words that make you seem smart, and therefore worthy of making judgement calls about things you clearly don't know shit about. Throw the word "atavistic" in there somewhere without any explanation and you can check this one off and start counting the blowjob vouchers with your good, non-jerk-off hand. Can't read? NOT a problem because you can always make up words like "maximalistic". It won't matter anyway...no one reads Spin for record reviews...that's what ITunes is for.

5) You might ask yourself, "Spike, how many good songs do I need to have on an album to get a good review from Spin?" Let consult the old magic 8-ball on this one. *SNORRRRT* Hint: the answer is zero, you fuck!!! What, do you think Spin knows dick about good music?!? They only know about blowing the same 6 bands over and over (every album that Pavement ever made? 10 stars). The reviewer doesn't have to justify that rating to anyone except the inbreds who mail them every week and get nuked by the editor in the "letters" section that no one fuckin' reads. What does it matter if Yeasayer gets a 3/10 rating but still ends up on the yearly "Best Of..." list? No one's gonna take these fuckers to task except a junkie with a Glendale library card and veins fulla charlie cut with burrito droppings and pocket lint. Especially when they gotta sell ad space to K-Mart, so kids buying the latest Linkin Park album will buy their fuckin' tube socks.

I'll leave you now with just this catastrophe of a magazine cover. Take a good look at every name printed on it (starting with Nickelback live) and shudder deeply:



"At this point Spin Magazine is a version of "OK," "US," and "People" for all the useless yuppies that read vampire novels. Even then, why would you buy it when you can go online and read it for free?"
-Elvis

The Search for the Mel Gibson Stash Continues...

To a lubed-up muscle-wanker like Henry "Discreet Rubdown" Rollins , it's great to be an outsider. Of course, if you were to ask Greg Ginn...he'd say "Henry's a pussy - throwing teenage girls into Chain Reaction's brick wall is the new SWEET RELEASE". Yeah. Sure. Maybe 30 years ago, it was "Get in the Van." Now it's more like "Get in the Escalade while the chauffeur's cousin Joaquin gives you a rusty rimjob ontop of a pile of caviar-filled champagne bottles, platinum cards, and empty Dianabol vials. " Fuck man, Rollins doesn't live on the edge--he's too busy countin' the cash to measure up to a real edge-dweller: Mel Gibson.

Let's review, fuckos. Mel Gibson, the world's most famous bigot, has railed against gays, jews, african-americans, women, jews again, hispanic people, sobriety, good movies, education, his audiences, and his own lack of teen Malaysian dwarf-servants to poke at. Understand that Mel doesn't want to live on the edge, but his own confusing beliefs and daily 7 gram bowls of industrial-grade skag keep him too "limber" for straight society and your plebeian poolside blowjobs. And fuck, how do you reconcile the fact that you hate Hispanic people with your obsession with the Mayans?! Answer: take another hit of the meth slurry you seem to belt down like it was cheap, racist vodka.

So I thought to myself, "I don't care whose pets I gotta tie off this week, I'm gonna get my hands on some Gibson-grade arm candy." Well shit man, I crawled up and down Pico kicking over every cardboard box and tearing down every Shiloe gig flyer looking for my fix, when I found THIS FUCKING GUY restin' his coke spoons on an Amoeba Records shirt outside of El Burrito Jr...

So, naturally I did what every decent American would do...I celebrated my own personal 2 minutes hate with dollar needles stabs of brake fluid and whatever else I could "snowball" into a Ralph's bag. After that sweet drip, I licked my lips and slowly approached this jenkem merchant while foisting a picture of Mel Gibson dumping yuppie art-grads into a NoHo dumpster as my only form of identification. You see, Osama ain't dead, he just moved to La Brea where he supplies hipsters with baking soda eightballs and a complimentary eyesocket for blue balled sink-washing truckers.

To Be Continued...