The Walkmen: «The Rat» (live) [mp3]
«Lack of trust in others.» It's one of the symptoms of what professionals—from the safe distance of abstracting objectivity—like to call «Complicated Grief». But really, it's just a natural reaction to other people's natural reactions, to death and taboo, which are, as often as not, an urge to flee, to look the other way, to make your excuses and to block out those tainted by the unsettling inevitabilities of nature. You know who's a rat when they abandon ship—when the fair-weather friends with the big words drop you like a hot potato. Fuck it; they always did say «potahto», so let's call the whole thing off.
Even when faced with a rat, though, I never really got hate. You know: that bona fide, real deal, Schadenfreudian, no-holds-barred malevolence burning unequivocally, uncompromisingly and unswervingly in the pit of your stomach, with no mitigations, doubts or ambivalence.
Disappointment… loss of respect… contempt… loathing… an unhealthy dose of chagrin, on the other hand—those I get. I understand curses that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, only on former friends. May their life be anti-climactic. May their mediocrity finally wear down their vanity. May their lazy intellect bring them nowhere near truth, and may they stew in their fear of reality. May their big words finally reveal to them just how small they are, as they watch cluelessly as their loved ones inevitably begin to suffer, the cowards bearing futile witness as they await their turn. May they be the last to go, with no one left for them.
And may they never have the nerve to call my number and ask me a favour, because I'd only welcome them back. Rats!
Thank fuck for the Walkmen, then, and their anthem to righteous (if pointless) anger. Catch them live tonight at John Dee, Torggata 16, Oslo. Doors open 20:00.
«Lack of trust in others.» It's one of the symptoms of what professionals—from the safe distance of abstracting objectivity—like to call «Complicated Grief». But really, it's just a natural reaction to other people's natural reactions, to death and taboo, which are, as often as not, an urge to flee, to look the other way, to make your excuses and to block out those tainted by the unsettling inevitabilities of nature. You know who's a rat when they abandon ship—when the fair-weather friends with the big words drop you like a hot potato. Fuck it; they always did say «potahto», so let's call the whole thing off.
Even when faced with a rat, though, I never really got hate. You know: that bona fide, real deal, Schadenfreudian, no-holds-barred malevolence burning unequivocally, uncompromisingly and unswervingly in the pit of your stomach, with no mitigations, doubts or ambivalence.
Disappointment… loss of respect… contempt… loathing… an unhealthy dose of chagrin, on the other hand—those I get. I understand curses that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, only on former friends. May their life be anti-climactic. May their mediocrity finally wear down their vanity. May their lazy intellect bring them nowhere near truth, and may they stew in their fear of reality. May their big words finally reveal to them just how small they are, as they watch cluelessly as their loved ones inevitably begin to suffer, the cowards bearing futile witness as they await their turn. May they be the last to go, with no one left for them.
And may they never have the nerve to call my number and ask me a favour, because I'd only welcome them back. Rats!
Thank fuck for the Walkmen, then, and their anthem to righteous (if pointless) anger. Catch them live tonight at John Dee, Torggata 16, Oslo. Doors open 20:00.
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