I enjoy various musics like Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Salt ‘n Pepa. I buy my clothes from reputable establishments. My limbs can be distended and replaced by electronic smoking devices, at the immediate convenience of any and sundry.
But I’m deaf to The Shins. I can’t hear them. Indie rock is a stylistic retread of ’90s alternative. When “Saint Simon” arcs that second-half descent into major chord play, from the whole minor first half, the primary portion of the song’s draw is imbibed in James Mercer’s vocal na-na’s. At least, that’s what they say. I can never remember if the scale change is in “Saint Simon” for “Fighting in a Sack.”
But someone asked me, “What’s a good band, like The Shins?” at a festival. I had no idea. I said here, there’s a bunch of bands here, on this flier here. You can even see what they’re wearing, with these new interactive fliers. It was like when that chap Forrest Gump was sitting on that park bench, relating his whole life to that gentleman who was sitting next to him. And he wasn’t telling any lies. He barely even looked at the guy while he talked. It was like he was there and he was somewhere else too, like he “couldn’t fit in three dimension if (he) tried,” the way Malik B of The Roots said. The beauty of his life is that he got up and did it — and the spectacle of him being himself, absorbing these grown-man, real-life experiences and not knowing HOW to lie, not knowing how to shove it in his mall clothes and disappear.