Nobody understands it, my not-secret love for the beef. "Turn off that shit," they say as I listen somewhat self-consciously and ostentatiously to Bat Chain Puller or Trout Mask Replica. (No-one sees me dance to your music. I am deeply afraid to do so.) I am no longer the young self-conscious fan debating whether your music is A: beautiful and distinctive genre-bending genius, or B: total shit.
Now I listen on my own, listening and remembering, a solitary consumer of your weird meters and the other stuff you were doing, which I cannot describe, because I cannot describe music, or what it was you were doing, and would not do it had I the ability, what's the point? I don't know if anything you recorded is any good and I now care less if it is. It is enough that it makes me happy to listen. Thanks for this sweet gift. And thanks to your various record labels which published your material out of the goodness of their hearts, I am sure.
You have been and remain a name-drop for many a musician. Will they now be saying "Blah blah, tour bus, blah, chlamydia... influenced by solar rays, millet burgers, and Captain Beefheart, may he rest in peace?"
Goodbye.
