Sir Lordshitshisshorts meets William Eggelston

Somehow, in spite of being halfway through the four day debauch of the Blackout, I feel more compelled to write about the documentary I saw yesterday about the photographer William Eggelston...if only because, well, there isn't really anything that newsworthy to report about the Blackout. It's big fun and I'm definitely loving it, but I mean--it's just a whole shitload of drunk people stumbling around...a gaggle of rocknroll geeks having a good time. It's one of the few spectacles out there that doesn't need much thought or reportage. The only somewhat deep thought I've managed in the last two days is the idea that the Clone Defects are easily the best rocknroll band of this decade. For all of Vulgar's mania, there's a Stones vibe underneath it all I've always somehow overlooked. And A-Ron filled in on bass, learning all their songs in a few hours.

I'm purchasing a ticket for tonight's show for $30. The Krunchies are finally playing the Blackout. Doc Filth just called, all wired and insisting we also play the show tonight at the Mutiny. Why? I don't know. Something about making amends for destroying the place the last time we tried to play there. Very diplomatic of ol' Doc Filth, no? A regular Henry Kissinger.

But Eggelston. The photogs among you know him well, as do you college knowledge photogs in training. The glorification of the ordinary. Made it ok to use color in "serious" photography. Vibrancy and beauty in the overlooked. I like it when the artists make me rethink the world. (How much did "American Beauty" steal from Eggelston? Or, is this idea even all that profound or new anyway in art?) The Blackout does this, actually...there comes a point when you think it's always gonna be this way, and this swinging party is just gonna go on forever and ever and nevermind that it doesn't. I would like to just document all the "overlooked" stuff about the Blackout going on in the Empty Bottle. Random objects. That brick wall. The rows of distortion pedals onstage.

I'd like to think I'd do this tomorrow with a couple of disposable cameras, but I'll just end up taking sloppy pics of drunk friends making drunk faces. I love these people. They're part of the reason why my stories aren't about the same workshoppy crap most writers bore me w/....ya know...the classic "new yorker" kind've story about professors and their affairs. I actually sold 5 books yesterday at the show. I can't believe these bastards know how to read. Five of them, anyway.

Going into Day Three of the Blackout, a kind of anti-athleticism emerges, with the same kind of discipline of athletes, only it's applied to abusing the body instead of feeling the pain through pilates or whatever. Because--you're gonna drink at the Blackout--there's just no getting around that li'l quandry. And that's fine. For me, it's probably the last weekend I'll ever do this. I'm kinda glad this is the last Blackout, for all the same reasons Todd and Brett have given about ending it now. Getting debauched gets a bit redundant after awhile. The stories emerging from the debauchery are all the same.

But the bands are still good, as bored as I am with rocknroll right now. Faves so far: Goodnight Loving, Angry Angles, Cloney D's, and Mandy and the Twins. The Worst are playing with us tomorrow. Haven't seen them in ages. But Eggelston, like Nabokov, reminding me to remember and take notice of the details. I'm trying. Or, I'm not trying at all and just having a good time. A bit of both, I guess.