347 Augusta

Just a sunny week or so ago, with my head in the clouds I shuffled from the woman’s section of Value Village heading to the mens pant department, rack. There in the middle of where the bahama shirts and Cosby sweaters meet in some outlandish attic-throw-away-bottleneck, stood an oddly tall man yelling “Who sings this song” as a question to the four or five lonely men idling over the idea of buying Paco Jeans. My path was bringing up the rear, and like the rest of the men in front of me I had no business answering this mans question. Working my way quietly through the blazer jackets I entered the pants department, rack. Personally, I never find anything there, well maybe once or twice. The oddly tall man found me, finding nothing. Looking down at me from across the pants rack he suddenly yelled,
“What song is that?”
“I don’t know” I said nervously, as all of the men now behind the oddly tall man looked on at me, with a sort of gleeful appreciation.
Quickly he boomed, “I hear a voice, and that voice sounds like Stevie Nicks, that tells me that it must be Fleetwood Mac.”
Quietly now, we stared at each other oafishly.

Who doesn’t hate Atlanta’s best failing music critic, Jeff Clark? Attractive Eighties Women debase Jeff in this interview and call him a “coward.”

And even though he’s talking about a band whose members I am familiar with, it doesn’t make up for the fact that he’s a butt plug. No trackback for you:

It’s Elephant’s have a new, nine-song, 22-minute EP out called Gets Along. If I was drunk right now I’d probably say they sound like some satanic merger of Three Dog Night and Canned Heat, but the sober truth is they’re even worse than that. They’re solidly in the running for the most awful local band I’ve heard so far this century. That’s beating out a metric ton of competition, folks!