I have, once more, got some angst in my pants!

DBDevendra Banhart (not sure if the spelling is right…don’t care, either) is releasing (unleashing?) another album that promises (punishes?) yet more ruminations on unicorns feeding in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park on dandelions and magical acorns. Oh goodie for me! I see he’s cut his hair with a pair of rusty scissors found in in a garbage can by the Aquarium over at Pier 39. He now looks like a thrift store version of  Sufjan Stevens. Love the plaid, shabby sheik (yes, you read that right…not ‘chic’) look you’ve adopted.  Right on, brother! Peace love and eternal grooviness to you and yours.

By all that is holy, why God? WHY?

Oh and, by the way and generally speaking, when the Hell did all these beards enter the room? What, was earth sucked into a wormhole that shot us back to nineteen-freakin’-seventy-two? How did Bon Iver, the aforementioned Banhart, Iron and Wine, Fleet Foxes and the rest of these unwashed, backwards glancing filthy heathen musicians weasel their way into the upper echelon of pop? I feel like I went to sleep in 1991 and have just been awoken by the cast of Hair. “Have a beard? Here’s a Grammy!”

The world, and America in particular, is still in a world of shit and artists have chosen to revolt by emulating the fashion sense and political stance of Jim Croce by singing songs about trees, beard lice and the benefits of a good nights sleep. Good time bands and jam bands and so-called “folk artists” armed with nothing but a six string acoustic guitar, some Centrum Silver and a Pan flute seem to be en vogue once more. What have we all done to deserve such punishment?

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