the relocation issue

we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
Where can
I be that’s more exclusive than here?
the
relocation
issue
volume 02
issue 02 JULY 2006
VOL 02 ISSUE 02 JULY 2006
we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
VITALS
CONTACT
Kip Hollingsworth
www.misprintmagazine.com
[email protected]
www.myspace.com/misprintmag
Director of Small Capitals & Expert Numerals
Harvey Merrybottom
Director of Co-Conspiritories
Chadwick Pennyrich III
Director of Visual Arts & Languages
The views expressed here are strictly those of the authors,
and do not represent the views of Misprint Magazine, which
is kind of weird because the ideas of author and entity are
actually entirely codependent of one another, but fuck it.
Send us your free shit!
Misprint Magazine
PO Box 303157
Austin TX 78703
For inquiries, kudos, hate mail and the rest,
e-mail Misprint at the above address.
LETTER TO THE DIRECTORS
Man what do you really know about Houston Rap or its screwed and chopped music
(“Texas Rap Dictionary” vol 2 issue 1)? Obviously nothing cause it seems like in your
article you are just trying to diss it all the way through. Don’t knock something you don’t
know anything about dumb azz. Keep your attention on Austin’s dead music scene and
stop dippin in ours. Uh and woodgrain steering wheels look better than other steering
wheels and they cost more so that’s why the woodgrain steering wheel is more preferable.
Also, switching lanes means ”swangin” on the street which means turning your steering
wheel left and turning it right and just swangin on the street. Truthfully, I don’t expect
you to know any of this but when you write about something, make sure you know what
the hell you are talking about. Don’t half azz your readers....
Thank You,
Michael Marbut
AIG/American General Domestic Life Companies
Accounting Analyst - Claims Department
A few words from the Director...
“We’ve got to get out of this place...” Those are lyrics from
a song, or a poem or some other trite piece of ephemera
that has absolutely no real meaning in my life. But I
wanted to start this letter with a quote because that seems
to be the thing to do when you are all out of new ideas.
I chose this one because it applies to the barely-kept-to
theme of this issue: relocation.
Kip Hollingsworth
I’ve always said the only reason Misprint is even slightly
enjoyable to those who read it (not to mention the only
reason it isn’t sued for outright plagiarism) is the firm
anchor the magazine has in the specific details of Austin
culture. Originally, I think this issue was going to be an
attempt at a more broad-based cultural observance that
could be enjoyed by other cities. But then reality set in and
we realized we have no talent. So, um, sorry about that,
other cities. Maybe next issue.
Best Regards,
Kip Hollingsworth
Musician’s Maladies
Metal Magnetic Poetry
By now, every person on the planet with a set of bangs knows that being in a band is hazardous
to your health. But if you look beyond the obvious ones, like hearing loss, drug overdoses and too
much Denton ‘tang, you might realize there are far more sinister ailments waiting to happen. Since
your record deal didn’t come with health insurance, here are a few things you might want to watch
out for if you ever decide to pick up that guitar and take to the stage.
Rock journalism is a joke, of course; the last recourse of illiterate no-talent hacks everywhere. But for
anyone trying to write about metal, the correct vocabulary is critical. Metal reviews require a delicate
mix of Lord of the Rings imagery, stoner slang and slasher-flick clichés. To make things easy for all
those would-be Chuck Klostermans manning the trenches reviewing Redrum bands, we’ve pieced
together some essential heavy metal terminology. It also makes fun magnetic poetry.
High Mics and Low Guitars
This setup is pervasive in the boi bands tearing
up Emo’s right now. You set the mic about 3
inches too high (requiring you to stand on the
balls of your feet) and strap your guitar about 3
inches too low (requiring you to overextend your
arms). This is like a new form of Japanese foot
binding. Except, after a few years, instead of
having adorable and tiny little feet you look like a
looming doucheballoon with cro-magnon arms.
Sweet. That’s totally going to bag you some
BMX chicks.
Mini Drum Kits
Nothing is worse for your posture or for your
reputation as a sane person than playing
the mini drum kit. Some instruments in their
miniature form are okay to play, such as
keyboards, flutes or finger cymbals. But if you
want to cement your status as an utter clown
without all the red tape or middlemen, hunch
over and bang on some shit a foot off the
ground.
Rickets
Even though you’re in some assholish, pseudoBritpop band, rickets is not all it’s cracked
up to be. After playing a month of shows in
dank clubs and driving in an even danker van,
daylight becomes about as foreign as a fulfilling
relationship. Get your ass out into the sunshine,
albino boy.
Carpal Tunnel Syndrome
It’s universally known that the bandmembers
who play the Powerbook get absolutely no
respect. You can never get enough laptop in
the monitors and you never get the girls. But
whatever excruciating pain you develop in
Pants -shitting Torso -Grinding
Ultra Grind -Core
Calculus of Metallic
Bowel Slay -ing Beard
Fuck -ing Carnage
Beard O)))
Mathematical Face -Melting
Nordic Riffage
Doom - Soaked Art Sludge
Bone -Disrupting Shit -Breaking
Nordic Axe Murder Solo
Painful Shit Slow Cthulu Metal
Huge Pot Dripping Dragon Dwarf
Meathooks
your wrist is worth it, because you so channel
Hendrix when you reign on the wireless mouse.
And remember that other time when you got
that sudden inspiration and had to click through
seven folders to find that perfect loop sample?
Yeah, that was fucking classic.
Pants
Brown Tone
Blood
Dwarf
-shitting
O)))
Fuck
Dragon
Torso
Sludge
-ing
Meathooks
“You can still get syphilis? Like that shit that
Lord Byron got? Where the hell can you even
get syphilis?” Um, how about in that backwater
dive bar in the north midwest where you totally
banged that pigtailed barmaid behind the
dumpster? That was a good idea.
-Grinding
Doom
Beard
Hair
-Core
Nordic
Slow
Metal
Death
Huge
Solo
Extreme
Face
Stoner
Murder
Ultra
Getting Your Face Smashed by a Bottle
-Melting
Pot
Riffage
Battle
Arm
Weed
Cthulu
Sword
-Breaking
Soaked
Grind
Shit
Shit
Booze
Mathematic
Art
Bowel
Dripping
Calculus
Axe
-Disrupting
Carnage
Technical
Bone
Syphilis
Everyone knows that Buddy Holly had perfect
vision until he played a show one night in his
hometown of Lubbock, Texas. Apparently he was
rocking too hard and got a Falstaff bottle to the
face. The same thing can happen to you, except
replace “Buddy Holly” with “your crappy band,”
change “Lubbock” to “710,” swap “Falstaff”
with “Stella Artois” and switch “rocking too
hard” to “emoting like the little girl you are.”
Off the Record!
Upcoming album releases I’m not looking forward to.
The Decemberists
Smashing Pumpkins
With bands like the Pixies, Dinosaur Jr and The
Chili Peppers back on the scene, it was only a
matter of time before Billy Corgan picked up the
red telephone to call the rest of the Pumpkins.
Will their new release be a double album
about Chicago? Or maybe it will be musical
interpretations of Corgan’s ridiculously hilarious
MySpace blog postings? Either way it doesn’t
matter because in 2006 the Smashing Pumpkins
have about the same cultural relevancy as Pogs.
Guns N’ Roses
Get ready folks, the
Second Coming is
nearly nigh. Soon the
mighty Axl will unleash
his great experiment in
oxymoronacy, “Chinese
Democracy,” upon the capitalist masses. I
suspect they will all be wondering why the
singer from The Offspring’s fatter, uglier brother
is putting out an album.
The Who
For real, how is this
happening? The kids
are definitely not alright
with this one because
the kids couldn’t give
two shits about The
Who. My generation thinks The Who are those
dudes that score Buick commercials. And let’s
not get started about their upcoming tour.
The only way Townsend is going to be able to
recreate his high-flying guitar antics is if he rides
about on a Hoveround.™
The Rapture
Ghostland Observatory
has already released
like 5 albums since
the last Rapture
album, thus killing the
whole castrati dance
post- punk scene. Also, there’s currently a
serious New York City backlash right now– only
a complete asshat has anything to say about
that town.
Yo La Tengo
Maybe it’s me but I
just can’t get into the
Houston Tejano rap.
Despite a huge increase
in my vocabulary and
an increase in hot
scenester trim that goes for said vocabulary, I
simply can’t relate. Perhaps it’s because I live
north of 183. But if one of their songs gets
mixed with a Bloc Party single, then I am all over
it like cheddar on a chalupa.
I never read Chaucer
or Blake when Mrs.
Williams tried to force
me to ten years ago.
So I really don’t give
a flip if that smarmy
Oxford student releases another musical
tome featuring characters straight out of “The
Canterbury Tales” or “Songs of Innocence and
Experience.” The entire canon has been raided,
save for sheap shearers and goat boinkers.
Indigo Girls
This time, the Girls
have broken up and
found heterosexual
relationships with a
software engineer and
an instruction manual
editor, respectively. Despite these trials and
triumphs captured on the new album, I still really
don’t care.
Bloc Party
The least Gang Of
Four-esque band that
the actual Gang of Four
thinks is the most Gang
of Four-esqe plans
to settle the score,
once and for all, as to whether or not they are
influenced by Gang of Four. The problem is that
the neo Gang of Four movement was about as
long-lasting as neo swing, so unless Bloc Party’s
new album sounds like Gnarls Barkley or some
shit no one’s going to notice.
Clap Your Hands
Say Yeah
Clap Your Etc. did not
save rock music with
the release of their
first album. They’re
definitely not going
to save rock music with a sophomore album.
In fact, the only thing Clap & Co. ever saved is
my $25 when I decided not to see their drunk,
ham-fisted renditions of the songs from their
first album.
What Made Milwaukee Famous
So What Made Etc. have signed to Barsuk Records and are now poised
to follow in the tire tracks of unfortunately named new-former-labelmates
Death Cab For Cutie. And to celebrate, the Milwaukee boys are re-releasing
their debut album with new whizzes and bangs that come with only the
deep pockets of an out-of-state label. Moms all across the country rejoice.
Title: Extreme Texas Metal Fest III
Location: Redrum Marquis/Facade
Typographer: Jan Danzig
The Block of
Douchebaggotry
Whiskey Bar vs. The Rainbow Cattle Company
vs. Foundation
Detail from Extreme Texas Metal Fest III. Can someone
please fucking tell me what this says?
On Austin Typography
A periodic critical analysis of public signage.
EVERYONE WHO FOLLOWS THIS COLUMN
knows that, as a typographer, I do not ask
for much: well-thought out layouts, a clear
typographic vision and yes, a little innovation.
So seriously, please take a few moments and
study the above picture. Now, kindly let me
know exactly when all the metal typeface
designers in town decided to get together, drain
a keg of Old Milwaukee and say, “You know,
legibility and a basic sense of typographic
decency just don’t mean shit to me.”
I bet this group gets into spirited discussions
about the newest trends in metal typography,
such as “Drippy Fonts vs. Jagged Fonts” or
“The Pentagram: Is it Still Extreme?” Well, I
can tell you right now the pentagram is not
extreme. My mom just got one tattooed on
her back after a Fallout Boy show. Want to try
something extreme? How about typesetting
your next metal band with a crisp, clean
Nordic sans serif typeface? I bet that would
make the bearded crowd go apeshit.
And what about the illegibility issue? When
one thinks of classic logotype design, perhaps
Coca-Cola, PBS or Misprint come to mind.
So why are almost every single one of these
band names completely illegible? I can imagine
wondering aloud, “Hmm, do I want to check
out the satanic duck skeleton band (see Detail)
or the dripping gore band?
I do find some comfort in the fact that not all
the band names look like dinner scraps left
over from that chick in The Gossip. To that
I give kudos to “Hammer Whore.”
I also get slightly tickled to think that all of
this overwrought metal type (which has to be
compensating for something) owes a major
debt to Art Nouveau, the feyest typographic
movement of them all. So in reality, these
tatted-out, bearded long-hairs have more in
common with a bunch of turn-of-the-century
Eurotrash dandys who pressed flowers than
they do with “real” metal.
Nowhere in Austin (aside from 6th street... or
4th street ... or Red River...) can one find more
douchebaggotry-per-square-foot than in this
block of clubs. A scenester fashion hellhole,
The Whiskey Bar hosts bands with faux-hawks
and chicks dressed like dudes from 1987. The
Rainbow Cattle Company is a gay cowboy
bar full of guys attempting to two-step and
chicks dressed like dudes from 1994. Finally
there’s Foundation, an imitation-upscale dance
club, where the chicks dress like your average
Whiskey Bar girl did before she discovered The
Bravery.
These three bars share a too-short stretch
of sidewalk. But despite profoundly different
patrons, it sometimes seems like we should
just knock down the walls to make one giant,
yet lame, club.
Across the board, the DJs throw down the
lamest party bangers, like Steve Miller Band
or Fleetwood Mac, yet everyone on the floor
completely loses their shit. And everybody
dances like the lamest, rhythmless white guy
on earth. Even worse, there are tons of dudes
everywhere. You can’t toss a roofied rum and
coke without hitting some gussied-up fauxmacho man trying to get to second base.
The only redeeming value of this otherwised
blighted spot is the way you can exercise
some Austin subcultural anthropology. For a
quality night out on the town, I recommend
getting bombed out of your skull and hitting
up all three. See how the other thirds live and,
perhaps, get invited to a sweet afterparty in
the process.
Place: Portland, Oregon
Place: Convent
Place: Louisville, Kentucky
Place: My Couch
As hip as: Practicing Autoerotic Asphyxiation with a
white belt.
As hip as: Getting punished with a Rolling Ruler.
As hip as: Robert Deniro’s stick time in “The
Untouchables”.
As hip as: Your girlfriend’s ambiguous questions with
no correct answers.
Comments: The hometown of Will Oldham, My
Morning Jacket, Hunter S. Thompson and William
S. Burroughs. That means it’s fucking full of drugs,
beards and acoustic guitars. This is either a plus or a
minus, depending on your penchant for indecipherable
dribble penned by old, drug-addled windbags.
Comments: If you are like me and shack up with your
old lady, you will one day learn that your actions have
consequences. Trying to make out with her 18 year old
sister at that last family wedding may not have been
the best idea after all. That is the best time to move
to the couch and get back in touch with your true love,
your television.
Comments: Tired of your sinful ways? Ready to make
Comments: Think Oregon Trail: “Shaun has died of
amends? Time to become a bride of Jesus. It will give
diphtheria.” Fuck it. Caulk the wagon and float across.
you plenty of time to self-flagellate while catching up on
Why is it that the only people who say that this city is the your Entourage DVDs. Be sure to take a vow of silence
tits are the ones who just moved to Austin? I mean, it’s
so you don’t have to explain to the other sisters why
kind of like telling me how much better my girlfriend was you have so many Pussycat Dolls CDs and black metal
in bed when y’all used to go out. Either way the response 10-inches in your record collection
is similar, one swift and deadly kick to the balls.
Rating:
Rating:
SICK OF AUSTIN BULLSHIT?
Rating:
Rating:
DON ’ T HATE, RELOCATE.
Place: Shanghai, China
Place: Fayetteville, Arkansas
Place: Omaha, Nebraska
Place: Key West, Florida
As hip as: Being rendered insensible with opium and
conscripted to work onboard a ship.
As hip as: Dry humping your cousin in your uncle’s El
Camino.
As hip as: Trying to find your way with a fleshlight.
As hip as: Finding your lost shaker of salt at the bus
station.
Comments: China is all about really bad ideas, poorly
executed by large numbers of enthusiastic people with
an unending supply of energy. If you think chest hair is
popular with ladies in the States, it’s fucking huge in
China and you’d be the only dude who has it. Baller.
Comments: Also referred to as “Fayette’nam,”
Fayetteville was recently retired from Playboy’s “Top
Ten Party Towns” after an eleven-year streak. Curious,
considering the city is still the drop point for all of our
government’s CIA-imported booger-sugar.
Rating:
Rating:
Comments: Omaha is kind of like Austin’s slightlyretarded nephew who is rarely mentioned at the family
reunion. One glaring similarity is the illusion of a viable
music scene caused by the national success of one or
two local bands. If I wanted to do meth in some barn,
I could do it in Buda and still make it to the Side Bar
for last call.
Rating:
Comments: I once asked a friend and Florida expatriate
to describe life in Key West. The cryptic and somewhat
slurred response I got went as follows: “Six-toed
cats, sexual ambiguity and a very large food-related
naval battle between locals and the Coast Guard.”
Coincidentally, this is also an overarching metaphor for
my sex life.
Rating:
Place: Williamsburg, Brooklyn
As hip as: Autoerotic asphyxiation with a white belt while reading Vice.
Comments: Oh, I know you just can’t wait to hear what I’ve got to say
about Williamsburg, you self-loathing hipster piece of shit. Just kidding,
you’re cool. Anyway, I don’t know what scares me more in this town, the
drug dealers or the fashion victims who buy their drugs. While making fun of
Williamsburg has become a deadly cliché, defending it is like defending that
friend who is a total shit-eating cocksucker that you hang out with anyway
because he knows how to party. So in order to save time, and bring some
modicum of justice to the world, I simply ask all who reside there to kindly
get over themselves.
Rating:
LAME <---------------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME
THIS SIDE OF
THE PAGE IS
WAY COOLER.
Jack Keroauc
Lara Croft
Ponce de Leon
Rating Scale
Tenzing Norgay
Thor Heyerdahl
as gay as San Francisco. Compared to San
If you move to New York, honestly, save
Francisco, New York City is the Yellow Rose. yourself some trouble and tell people you are
from Colorado. People will just say, “cool,” and
Gentrification
In Austin there is a magical line called I-35 let you carry on your day without having to
explain why you don’t have an accent.
where, when you cross it, everyone turns
white. There is another line called Mo-Pac
where everyone turns tastelessly rich and
tacky. New York also has a line, and it is
called the East River.
8 Million Gay People
And other differences between Austin and New York City.
Recently, as is customary for “creative” people in Austin, I have relocated to New York
City. I have only been here for a bit over a week, which is just long enough for me to start
making broad-sweeping generalizations and ill-placed judgments based solely on my limited
interactions with the city. In my short time here, I have noticed many similarities and
differences between Austin and New York, some of them more glaringly obvious than others.
Fame and Fortune
Both Austin and New York are filled to
the brim with actors and mogul-type
celebrities. But there is a difference. In New
York you see famous people every day. In
Austin you see the same fucking famous
people every day. Both experiences are very
annoying and make you wish you had never
watched a minute of television or read a
single magazine. At least in Austin, since
everyone and their mom knows which
celebrities live in town, you have an excuse
for knowing who Richard Linklater is. In
New York I just feel ashamed when I go to
a club and see that dude from Yeah! Yeah!
Yeahs! And know that his name is Nick. In
a perfect world I would see him and think
that he’s just another skinny dude with an
unfortunate haircut.
Also, everyone in New York has more
money than you. Even the homeless people
are rich compared to you. I went to a free
music festival yesterday and a beer cost $68.
A pack of cigarettes costs a month’s rent
and everyone here smokes. In Austin, on the
other hand, everything is free. People will
pay you to sublet their apartment and there
are drinking fountains on every corner that
spew Pabst’s Blue Ribbon. In New York it
costs money just thinking about a can of
Pabst.
Gayness
Austin has a vibrant and thriving gay
and lesbian scene, evidenced by the
infinitesimally-long line that is forming
outside Oil Can Harry’s this very moment.
The difference in New York City is, here,
everyone is gay. The bartenders are gay.
The cabbies are gay. The bodega owner of
undetermined national origin is gay. Gun
stores display rainbow flags. Sometimes, I
think I am gay when I’m here (which will
come as no surprise to all but a few people).
That’s how fucking gay it is. It should be
noted, however, that New York is still not
It has been a goal of mine for many years
to live in New York. You know that song,
the one with the dude’s graduation speech
and he goes, “Live in New York, but leave
before it makes you hard.” Well, he talked
me into it. I always saw myself living on the
island of Manhattan, but now that I live
here (with $1000/month rent that everyone
here seems jealous of ) I am beginning to
realize that anyone my age worth hanging
out with lives in motherfucking Brooklyn. I
wanted to avoid Brooklyn in order to avoid
becoming a walking-talking hipster cliché,
but instead I find myself disappointed at
the yuppies I invariably end up sharing the
bar with in Manhattan. Well, yuppies and
the Nubian lesbians I hung out with last
night. But it seems there are two options:
be a clichéd hip kid or be a rich yuppie
who has no idea who Duchamp is, despite
the Dada exhibit currently showing at the
MOMA. Well, I suppose there is the third
option of not caring what anyone thinks
and just being myself, but we all know that
is a load of bullshit.
Texas Pride
In Texas, people appreciate the fact that
you are from Texas. This is because you
are actually in Texas. In New York that
shit doesn’t fly. When you are talking to
someone and they find out you are from
Texas, in their mind your western shirt
suddenly ceases to be ironic and you
become one of the men in Alabama who
killed civil rights workers during the 1950’s.
Rock Shows
In Austin, everyone shows up to the rock
show at 11pm and the headliner goes on
around 12:30. In New York, despite the bars
being open until the obscene hour of 4am,
the show starts at 6:30 and finishes up just
before the streetlights come on. My theory is
that this is because everyone in New York has
to work a real job to survive, even the rock
kids. I know it’s sad dude, but someday your
career making skull-emblazoned wristbands
will have to come to an end and you’ll be
pissed that shows in Austin start so fucking
late. Hopefully you’ll have realized by then
that rock music is trite, meaningless and
boring as shit. In fact, start now and just go
see a movie. But watch out, I hear A Scanner
Darkly sucks ass.
Dear SOUND team:
We like your band. Seriously. And all two of our
devoted readers want the inside scoop, the dirt, if
you will. But unlike the rest of those pussy music
‘zines, we ask the hardhitting questions, the kind
of questions other ‘zines are just too scared to
ask. If you could take a few minutes out of your
busy schedules of rocking out, scoring coke from
mustachioed ice-cream men and making little
tattooed babies all over the USA to briefly answer
a few questions, we would really appreciate it.
Besides, having you answer some questions will
save us the trouble of making up a fake interview
with SOUND team, which I can assure you is
something neither of us truly wants.
Sincerely,
Misprint
Misprint: Which of the following
overwrought rock-journalism adjectives
would you most like to be burdened with
and why: jangly, rootsy, fey, postmodern,
straightforward, derivative or incisive?
SOUND Team: Post-jangly, straight-fey,
forward-derivative (derivative of something
that hasn’t happened yet).
On a scale from 0 to 1, 0 being “totally
puss” and 1 being “gnarly as fuck”, rate
SOUND Team’s beard quotient. Elaborate
if desired.
Sam:1, Jordan:0.1, Michael:0.2, Matt:0.3,
Bill:0.2, Gabe:0.3; Avg.=0.55. Jordan’s “beard”
is really just a few disconnected patches of hair
in different places on his face. Sam can grow
a beard in a matter of minutes. Bill still hasn’t
ever used a razor. I think that technically makes
him female.
Would you rather do it in the DJ booth,
the VIP Room, the tour van or the Georgia
Dome on the 50-yard line?
The DJ booth inside our tour van, which is
parked on the 50-yard line.
Paul Wall or Chamillionaire?
Who?
Neil Young or Neil Diamond?
I want their genetically-engineered baby. But I
want it genetically engineered so I won’t have to
mess with dirty diapers and all that jazz.
cheeseburgers. Or something like that. I think
the patty is supposed to be made of processed
soy. If you want to eat a computer graphic,
you’re probably spending too much time at the
office.
The Midwest is pretty sweet, am I right?
Wisconsin and Minnesota are pretty sweet;
Nebraska and Iowa totally suck. It’s mostly
genetically-modified corn, one-toothed gas
pumpers named “Bertha” and more mini-vans
than you could shake a tongue at.
Could you take the dudes from The Arm in
an arm-wrestling match?
Anytime, anyplace. Do those dudes even work
out?
Would you rather have a girl like you
because you are in a band, or because you
are a musician?
Are we talking polka girls here or heavy metal
stinkers? Depends on the genre, I guess.
Baird brothers vs. Gallagher brothers from
Oasis: who wins? How does it go down?
Any biting or kicking?
Who gets more indy chicks, SOUND Team or
Voxtrot?
Bairds. Liam and Noel are on the ground,
fighting with each other. Michael and Bill happen
by, deliver a few swift kicks to the ribs, and
there you have it.
If by indy, you mean “Indy 500,” I’d say Voxtrot.
Those dudes are always hanging around the
NASCAR scene, picking up some stone-washed
fun.
Actually, they wouldn’t even make it to the fight
‘cuz we’d douse their pre-fight cocktails with
copious amounts of brown acid, and watch as
they scrape the rainbow buzzard off their face.
You guys looked hot on the cover of The
Chronicle.
Are cassette tapes cool or ironically cool?
We looked fucking retarded, just like every
Chronicle cover. They wouldn’t use any of our
totally badass photos, but insisted on creating
their own special brand of bland crap.
What the fuck is up that floating hamburger
on your website? It’s mouth-watering.
As Captain Beefheart once said, there are only
14 people left in the world, and 7 of them are
Cassette tapes are actually cool. Tapes made of
iron are never cool.
Which rock trophy do you most look
forward to banging: Chloe Sevigney or Rose
McGowan?
I’ll tell you later. Probably three-way.
If Capitol Records were a dude, would you
have a beer with him?
Only as many beers as we have drink tickets for.
Then he’d buy me a wine-spritzer and ask me to
pay 80% of the bill.
What’s your favorite bare-ass-naked-in-publicplace-while-high-on-horse-tranqs memory
from the recent tour? Spill the details!
Once we got a late checkout and stayed in the
room until one p.m.! We drank Bartles and James
next to the Best Western pool. Then we did some
cannonballs!
And finally, which of your song titles most
directly references your dong?
Uh... “No More Birthdays.”
Just because
THEYʼRE too
cheap to print
in color, doesnʼt
mean you are!
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What is the penalty for not capitalizing
“sound” in SOUND Team?
Listening to our music really loudly for all
eternity. These days, we’re happy if you don’t
add “the” and make it two words instead of one.
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How did my cat get feline AIDS?
Coolhunting for Fun and Profit
AUSTIN IS A CITY THAT PRIDES ITSELF on
its creativity. But no matter how DIY or
countercultural your lifestyle, we are all subject
to the whims of the diabolical corporate
marketing machine. It’s bad enough that the
government taps your phones, tracks your
porno collection and embeds swarms of nanobots in your cigs. But now
the corporate marketers are
planting spies in our very
midst. Recently, Misprint
Magazine got a chance
to experience the process
of corporate coolhunting
firsthand.
Sharing needles
with other cats.
Bad cat blood
transfusion.
Institutional trendspotting is much more
calculated and rigorous than you might expect.
Professionals armed with vast resources,
statisticians and obscene budgets toil to
understand the fickle consumer mind. With
the advent of the internet, trends spread like
lightning and have become far more difficult
to predict. I mean, shit, who would have ever
thought that ironic metal or fanny packs
<FIG 1> could get cool again?
But the marketing machine fought back,
dispatching their soulless agents to the world’s
largest congregation of the hip and tattooed:
SXSW. I imagine hordes of thirty-somethings
with marketing degrees, digital cameras and
clipboards infiltrating metal shows while
taking notes on their PDAs. Presumably, they’re
trying to figure out why everyone has a beard
and how their parent company can capitalize
on it.
Anonymous gay
cat sex.
Public litterbox.
Also, these agents were looking to recruit
local informants to keep abreast of local
“contemporary culture” and send intel back
to base. These new recruits are ostensibly the
fashionable and trendy, those truly passionate
and positive about local culture. They really
fucked up when they discovered Misprint.
There are a number of ways to break into the
coolhunting business: put on a DIY fashion show,
use your useless B.A. in communications to
make music videos, blow someone famous, etc.
My personal favorite is to publish a shitty ‘zine.
In the interest of responsible journalism and
screwing with market research, and because the
money was fucking sweet, I agreed to become a
trendspotter. I promptly received a questionnaire
covering fashion, music, art and culture; the
questions ranging from benign to bizarre. I nearly
went mad with power, giddy with the idea I
could influence the corporate marketing agenda.
Of course, I was far too lazy to actually produce
a “research brief,” instead opting to go tubing
or some shit. But if I had I would have done
my solid best to convince them that the hottest
trends among the scenster elite are beekeeping,
bow-fishing and cult worship of the Lovecraftian
Elder Gods <FIG 2>.
This all distills to the fact that style is a
commodity which can be bought, sold and
manufactured. Now more than ever the creatives,
freaks and weirdos are being studied. And the
secret is out on Austin, Texas: they know this
town is supposed to be cool. Right now someone
out there is analyzing your gig-posters, band
stickers and t-shirts, trying to figure out how
they can rip off your style to sell more HotPockets and energy drinks. As depressing as
this sounds, find solace in the fact that the same
stupid trends will be back in another ten years.
Why I Am “Hot,” But Not “Hot”
Band Names I Refuse To Typeset
Sweating is definitely not attractive, unless you’re up on a stage singing about Viking battles. But
during a night on the town? No way. But for some reason, my subculture of choice has yet to catch
on to this fact. Otherwise why would I feel forced to sacrafice comfort for status?
There are a million reasons why you should not have a crappy band name. Are you really going to tell
some asymmetrical-banged hottie you’re in a band called the Ass Lips or The Dysfunctional Men?
You might as well walk around with an albatross screenprinted on that secondhand t-shirt. Another
reason you don’t want a crappy name is – get ready – because it really pisses off poster designers.
Nothing mucks up their piece of poster art like a really, really shitty band name. Like these:
Bike
Damage Pants
Hobbits of the Shire
Superheavygoatass
Best Fwends
I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness
Bearded Clam Diggers
Riding a bike around town is super sexy. There’s
no better way to fool the indie chicks into
thinking that I don’t have an upper five-figure,
souless job than by schlepping to the Beauty Bar
on a fixed gear bike. If downtown Austin was
flat, that would be awesome. But one wrong
turn and you’re up a hill without any low gears,
sucka. Plus, there’s nothing worse than showing
up out of breath and with your hair blown out
like Billy Idol.
Grow a Beard
Growing a successful, gnarly beard pretty much
guarantees membership into Club ‘Tang. That’s
cool and all, except you now have to live with
a border collie sleeping on your face. And if you
shave it off, you might as well shave off your
metaphorical manhood for good measure.
Wear Skinny, Imported Jeans
Unless you’re twelve or have bitching tattoos
of anime girls on your calves you cannot wear
shorts to the club. In this day and age, the
skinnier the jeans the better. This is flattering for
sure, but I don’t think I’ve gotten used to moving
around in a cast of my own ass sweat.
Smoke
Cigarettes are still as awesome as ever. Except
now I can’t light up in a nicely air-conditioned
room. I have to go into the heatwave out back
with all the other jokers. There’s something
about open flames and burning organic material
that just makes everything a little toastier than
it really is.
Eat Mexican Food
Delicious Mexican food is supposed to be great
during the summertime months. There’s nothing
better than biting into some green pepper thing
and then salt my own margarita glass by putting
the rim on my forehead. Righteous. I just saved
10 cents.
Attend Outdoor Rock Concerts
Daylight has never been good for anyone. That
total hottie you met at the Jackalope last night
today looks less Emma Peel and more John
Peel. Your favorite rock band looks like shit at 4
o’clock in the afternoon Texas sun. And come to
think of it, so do you.
Oklahomos
The Midgetmen
What Made Milwaukee Famous
Hellapeño
For Those Who Know
Finally Punk
Gossip! Gossip! Gossip!
After more than twenty years of providing
an outlet for Austin’s crappiest metal and
hardcore, the Back Room is finally shutting
its sticker-covered doors. Once revered for
its $3 pitcher happy hours and breaking
local Poison ripoff Dangerous Toys, lately
the Backroom has been keeping it trill as an
outlet for Austin hiphop. The owner cites
their demise on higher oil prices and yuppies
moving to the eastside. Looks like that
wheatpasting campaign didn’t work like they
planned.
----------------------------------------------------Everybody went apeshit for an afternoon
when Pitchfork reported that Jeff Magnum
(of Neutral Milk Hotel fame) got sick of
bong rips and goat farming in the woods of
north Georgia and decided to come out of
exile. The ‘fork cited “credible intelligence” in
the form of an internet message board post
from Magnum promising new material he
described as “shit-tons of ass-pounding metal.”
Much like that girl you met on online that
turned out to be a dude with a beard, the post
was summarily discovered to be fraud. That
will teach you to not believe everything you
read on the internets, kiddo.
----------------------------------------------------Local fey snakecharmers Voxtrot just signed
to fey British label PlayLouder. PlayLouder
is best known as home to Nordic reverb
bandits Serena-Maneesh, notable only for
going onstage at Emo’s with their guitarist’s
fly down. Needless to say, the producers
of Veronica Mars are stoked, and Voxtrot
already picked out a few new fancy shirts for
their first TV guest appearance. Just goes to
show that all you need to get a record deal
is a MySpace page, five crappy songs and a
dream.
And in other local signing news, What Made
Milwaukee Famous just got picked up by
Barsuk and should soon be bringing the
Schlitz for their first headlining tour. The
Barsuk hype machine describes their sound
as “the perfect backdrop to a drive down the
coast.” Bitchin’. Next time I go home I expect
to find their new record in my mom’s CD
collection right between Spoon and Snow
Patrol.
----------------------------------------------------From what I hear, soccer players are very sexy
right now. The amount of Deutschtang those
dudes are getting is beyond imagining.
----------------------------------------------------The Mount Wudang monks (of Crouching
Tiger fame) are going on vacation for the first
time ever and are headed for the live music
capital of the world. After getting some killer
barbeque and Mexican martinis, they will be
blessing the Stevie Ray statue, offering Emo’s
a free feng shui consultation, and performing
kung fu demonstrations at Headhunter’s.
----------------------------------------------------Droog-friendly milk bar Oslo recently
rebranded itself as the “Hi-lo,” a new, highconcept shit-stain on the face of Austin
nightlife that stinks of cocksuckery so badly I
can smell it from my loft-like apartment. The
front half is a your standard west sixth yuppie
lounge, while the back has been painstakingly
converted to resemble what Houston
restaraunteurs think Austin dive bars look like.
They’ve imported gallons of urine and are even
hosting some shitty bands, but the end result
is more T.G.I Friday’s than The Continental.
It seems unlikely that they’re going to draw
the Red River crowd away from Beerland any
time soon.
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