Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Brian Thorn at The Magic Shop, New York City, during CMJ week in the fall of 2012
It's late Sunday night right now.
It's been a hellhole of a weekend.
It wasn't one of those weekends that set themselves up so nicely that you just get to knock them down, as you knock them back.
It was a pain, through and through, a real grind - but even more than that.
It was one of those weekends that was just plain no good, a triumphant waste.
You know the kinds I'm talking about - the weekends that feel like Tuesdays, but worse because weekends are supposed to feel better. They're supposed to be good to us. Hell, even Tuesdays are supposed to feel better than this weekend felt.
It would be great if we could just go back and do it all again. If only there was a way to make it all right, but then we're talking about fixing circumstances that were never in our control to start with so such a task would be a real bitch.
The fellows in the New York band Slam Donahue would never let a weekend like this one get to them. They might not even let it happen. They would set themselves on fire if it meant never having to have a shit weekend like this one. They have measures in place to avoid such depressing calamities. The music that they make is full of such wonderful slacker cool that we're sure that they would have no problem keeping everything copacetic. They would have no problem giving the fat middle finger to all of the things agitating them. They would just do it, throw the empty beer bottle in their hand against the driveway, head for another full one and sit in the most comfortable chair in the house. They sound as if they're surrounded by various modes and ways that they know to get their jollies and these nasally garage rock songs are their entreaties to the fuck-all good times that are essential for all.