Promises are really just words. Words are relative to the subject matter placed before or after each group of words. All history is creative to a certain degree and subject to the laws of relative truth.
But really, I was looking for those so-called promises. I demanded these promises. And I walked away, then thinking I had what I came for, but not really.
I was lying to myself. Creating my own "creative" history.
I got exactly what I deserved. You got exactly what you deserved. Have you ever had the feeling they’ve been cheated?
In some ways, in the most ironic forms of those ways, that feeling is what you are now feeling.
This article isn’t a farewell. The Cincinnati-based band White Girls wanted to make sure of that. I went ahead and made them that promise. In reading this, though, you might see that as a broken promise because these words and sentences may be seen to some eyes as a farewell.
I will not, however, talk in past terms about this band. Never. But it is I who is asked the most important question of the night. Overtop a coffee table, holding an ashtray and ceramic firearm, I’m confronted and asked, “Do you fuck to fuck or do you fuck to cum?”
This question compiles the subject matter of this whole article in as few words as possible. The answer is just as deep and meaning- ful as the question. “Both,” I respond.
There is deepness all around me. I have found the moth er den of electric-cobras.
I look to my shoes named after clouds and make a side note to clean all this deep shit from its high-tech treads next time I am near a roll of paper towels.
Aug. 28 is the beginning of the new beginning. It’s White Girls’ last scheduled appearance before this end’s new beginning (dot dot dot). That’s when White Girls will play Fountain Square in beautiful downtown as part of the MidPoint Indie Summer Series. The same date also serves as a CD release event for White Girls’ latest effort, Permission to Land — its release will also include their first EP, for good measure.
Self-recorded. Self-released. Self-promoted. Indie the entire way.
On Permission, which is certain to burn up year-end lists, you can really hear the many different layers of the White Girls’ sound. Bringing to mind Joy Division and The Stooges, with Captain Beefhart-type structuring and the upfront, impersonal delivery of bands like The Hot Snakes, the new album is sonic danger.
One minute you’re being attacked with layers of sound taking solid form and leaving you immobile. Other times the sound opens up and lets you in. You hum along to the guitar leads while the lyrics sink into your head and leave you a willing member of the resistance. Part of something bigger. You think the beat is gonna get you when you realize it’s already had you!
White Girls are Brian Niesz, Ross The Boss, Matt “The Junglecat” Wizinsky and relative newbie, Jason Hounshell. Sitting before me, one ate White Castle. One didn’t say much. One kept rubbing his head and the last one answered nearly every question with another question. Just sitting there, they fit their guitar, vocals, bass and drumming roles (you can match up the appropriate action with the person at your leisure). They talk about their favorite shows and worst times. They end up being one and the same.
This is not the end of White Girls. Members are optimistic of what their future holds — opportunities in the forms of bands, vocations and other relative actions. Me? I feel cheated. It’s irony in the form of photographic lightning captured from honeymooners’ eyes in Gatlinburg, Tenn.
This is not the end of White Girls. It’s just the end of this article.
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