wellington journalist absolutely trashes our gig, misses point of music completely.
“amanda palmer looks back on her press clippings from age 73”
the room is dimly lit by faded, fringed lamps with real incandescent bulbs of a past era. the collected clutter, observable when one’s eyes adjust to the Blanche DuBois-level lighting, looks like a cross between the set of “Sunset Boulevard” and “Pee Wee’s Playhouse”.
*she coughs violently. you wait patiently and empathetically as she lovingly fingers a folder of faded press clippings*
oh, YES, honey….of course. of course. back in the day it was so much cooler to hate the dresden girls. do you remember? we had the “automatic boy” song.
oh, that was a cool song.
we used to say “cool” all the time, you know. that was the word we used for EVERYTHING.
*she coughs violently*
*tightly and nervously wraps her torn and wine-stained kimono around her waist, fills glass with straight gin*
(it is 10:30 in the morning)
yes, yes. we were the “punk cabaret” lana del rey of our day.
*takes a benson & hedges deluxe ultralight 100 from a straw bag on the table*
(you also need to imagine that my voice has transformed into what i called my “retirement accent.” it’s from long island and full of holes.)
but then…we faded. we faded from hatred.
*sighs. flattens and smooths dog-eared computer matching print-outs of the dresden dolls first album review in pitchfork, which are encircled by red lipstick heart drawings*
and then….we were just a little cult touring band that nobody had energy to hate anymore.
we tried creating artificial scandals, we married controversial science fiction writers, we even BOTH got that horrid upper lip plastic surgery that was so popular.
none of it worked. and brian looked horrid.
*lights second cigarette. hacks*
but…for a brief moment there, a flame of hope lit in our hearts. we had new zealand.
*puts out cigarette in glass of gin. pauses. strokes cancer-ridden cat in lap*
yes, dear. thank fucking christ fornew zealand being a decade behind the times.
*hacks up a huge ball of greenish phlegm streaked with ash, which lands squarely in the middle of the pitchfork print-out*
(scan via the journalist’s facebook page for his blog)
p.s. the wellington show, in reality, was one of the best of the tour.
p.p.s. to sweeten the deal, here is a youtube clip of this same journalist “experimenting with percussion.”
god i love my life here in new zealand. i swear…it’s starting to give australia a ride for its money: