“My records kept me from giving up on my life and the shitty world I had to live in. Each one was like an echoing message of rage and desperation in a bottle that washed up on the bloody-knuckle beach of the lonely prison called home. Alone in my room, listening to the voice of a generation that nobody wanted, I kept afloat with the fact that I knew there were disaffected youth just like me, somewhere in the distance, who would never be a part of society and wanted to live by loud, fast rules. After getting kicked around all day by people of every color, creed and class, I would sit at home, waiting for the needle to hit the record, screaming along to the hated youth.”— - Max G. Morton, Looking For The Magic
“They’re events you remember all your life, like your first real orgasm. And the whole purpose of the absurd, mechanically persistent involvement with recorded music is the pursuit of that priceless moment. So it’s not exactly that records might unhinge the mind, but rather that if anything is going to drive you up the wall it might as well be a record. Because the best music is strong and guides and cleanses and is life itself. So perhaps the truest autobiography I could ever write, and I know this holds as well for many other people, would take place largely at record counters, jukeboxes, pushing forward in the driver’s seat while AM walloped you on, alone under headphones with vast scenic bridges and angelic choirs in the brain through insomniac postmidnights, or just to sit at leisure stoned or not in the vast benign lap of America, slapping on sides and feeling good.”— Lester Bangs, Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung
Suburban adolescence seen through a haze of eighties metal, punk, and B-grade movies. Fluro skate decks, metal-obsessed trailer park drug dealers, near death country music experiences, synth-scored melodrama and cumming of age.