top of page
  • Writer's picturerobertsavela

Third dead-eye silent nihilism while listening to Tad's Salt Lick reissue

Aaaaand we question progress… What is it? Non-stop horsepower dirt tunes? Blitzed-out bodies bolt – to secure or to flee? Where does it go? …Nowhere, and technology makes the drone axe men worst enemies. Music is power. More thinking isn’t necessarily good and progressive and evolving like fuming churches. All the sinister melody knowledge makes one with frozen glue music both therapist and piercing-riff patient. Monthly meetings - evolution of the loser - meetings of remarkable mangled-swagger peoples work out all their problems between the flowers of evil and perception and ignorance and decaying textures and wounded moods and authenticity and no goal more valuable than any other. Neither hog-on-heaven-hill religion nor everything’s-on-fire science are adequate. Some say go with your gut, a subterranean suffering or maybe intuition, or maybe the Tao will help, or maybe a memory lapse session smuggling heresy.

Engaging hook and ladder six feet down death is a struggle to realize oneself but sometimes through astrology or Satan’s-motorbike-speeding zeitgeist, or losing, will help. Ideally the thought of nothing left except white rabbit becoming what you are and enduring perils of apathy would bring a sense of freedom. Earn that classic grunge status and road-worn-knuckles freedom with swollen harmonies higher-conscious existence of gonzoid manifestos by constant striving, which actually becomes the meaning of wood-goblin-drama life. Life like a circle, the void huffin’ the blue stuff, no purpose ultimately fuck this world heavy and no masters like the red light and no controls vote social future.

Accept meaningless meaning mean black bear imagery and be passively driven L-I-V-I-N. Must live through it, squares don’t belong – Is God at the end? The more a dirty maestro is sustained by how-to-smoke tradition and PNW ambience, the less “existence” there is. The Meltzer of grunge. Atrophy, entropy, drug-pumped loonies, all there for y’all no lean hunk rollercoaster to navigate and cry and laugh and throw down and fucking bonkers exorcise swallowing chisels.

Can I hear it from all the atheists and priests out there kill reductionist fascists? The nihilist covers up with cirrhosis of the lyrics, creativity of confrontation and piss-pants artistry and the source of our skewed apeshit being as shuddering vacancy nothingness and honesty and asking questions of all things and say goodbye don’t follow. Scream bloody indulgence-philosophy mercilessly pulverizing my friend Ananda Masha reverse Ram Baba doubleshot triple love…


Recent Posts

See All

Some quick word riffs for a Harvey Milk listen.

Those sully queens make beautiful stranger-angels’ frozen hearts and slippery minds. Sounding like a $1.29 Midnight Dragon malt liquor 40oz. in 1991 or in the year 2100 no rays of sunshine. Molotov-sm


bottom of page