Father John Misty
Just Dumb Enough to Try

The world is full of informers. Useless scum, rabble ready to tyrannically hurl their own frustrations at you because they're unable to understand them, let alone process them. Useless mush that gets stuck between the soles of shoes.

It's true, with some bastards (without a father), you can't pull off a ruse. Life in the province is easy for a free thinker, right? Someone who's never been afraid to say what they think. “If at night you take a step with a tongue that's a knife, they'll cut your clothes off,” a euphemism. Always resistance, a crack in the wall, a crack in the wall.

The scum has always tried, since unsuspecting ages, one kept spitting and telling anecdotes like an 80-year-old, I responded with caricatural chuckles, others played with silence or nerves, with alcohol or girls, ridiculous. When they inject you with hatred, they also inject you with the antidote to understand it, idiots that they are. All older, all afflicted with hazing, a millenary legacy of Mesozoic rites, not even the monolith represents such greatness of emptiness.

In schools, it was constant, surreal, and sweet delirium, during physical education, I watched my peers work hard and do their best to excel, I mocked them while pretending to sleep standing up. In snack science, some (but few) rightly wore tracksuits. I wore improbable colors, bright brown worn-out pants, a checkered market shirt with hideous colors and over it a beautiful fluorescent synthetic tracksuit. I'd unzip with the shirt underneath and someone would manage to say to me: “how the hell did you get dressed?” Let's learn to bring out the worst in those in front of us, we feed on their miseries. Black holes immune to the masturbatory schizophrenias that spin along with the hamster. What do you want to talk about? Talk to me without words, they can't even make this small effort. Then come the questions, and you listen fascinated, in front of you a primate.

We are artists, Father John Misty is an artist of hate like many others. But he's good, he's sweet with various shades of hate. He draws from the classics, in this piece, I feel a bit of Young, a bit of Sir Elton, a bit of whatever you like. In fact, try to tell me whom the electric solo resembles, you'll succeed better than I will. The lyrics are really not bad, the voice too, arrangements all good. We have a new father (a Bowie in color) among us after Maronno.

If you want to delve deeper into the artist, read Sotomayor's review of Pure Comedy.

PS/Dedication: Dedicated to you, special person who is reading.