The saga, as ODB says, continues.
On this occasion, the mighty Casio MT-40 had been pressed into service as my personal Grant Hart. Gosh, I was so bitter and full of ephedrine. How even am I still alive? (Cf.)
Speaking of Hüsker Dü. Here’s another tune from a fun Back to Work sponsorship where I let myself wear my unflagging love of Bob Mould on my sleeve. That said, I will never ever ever again spend this much time clicking little green dots to create the exact drumming pattern I heard in my head. Oy, with the clicking.
Like most Americans in 2020, I released a song that represented the amount of time that we were all supposed to wash our hands so Mr. Trump’s summer plans wouldn’t be disrupted. «Waschen Endlos», ja?
From the first Bacon Ray cassette, back when it was just Canard, Chris and me. There should probably be more rock songs about ibuprofen and regret.
One time I was smoking a cigar with a rabbi downtown. As you do. And the rabbi and I got to talking about a bunch of Judaica that was totally unfamiliar to me. It was all super interesting, but at one point he dropped some science on the nature of existence, self-care, and agency via Hillel the Elder, and my mind was fully blown.