Rock Your Face!

and now ladies and gentleman, time for a bit of violent comedy. here we see uk rock fans taking in the double platinum selling tripe that is Panic! at the Disco on some seemingly ordinary afternoon in the countryside. well taking it in isn't all they're doing. a bit of the hyperviolence to give the music some snap, crackle, and pop. Carling to the face fucker that's how we get down in Birmingham. gotta love the UK's wholesale rejection of tweemo (a similar incident, though less satisfyingly violent, befell Gerard Way and My Chemical Romance).

i heard about this incident not too long ago, yet it never occured to me to search for a video of it. god bless the omnipotence of youtube.

so yeah, like, i was at this Panic! show last summer, and like, some guy, like totally threw a beer bottle at Brendon's head. So uncool! Yeah. like, he fell down and was knocked out and we were, like, all worrying and like, a few people cried. but then we started cheering. just like, cheering Panic! Panic! Panic! at the top of our lungs, and Brendon got up. It was so cool. I hope the police got that asshole.

pussy. couldn't have happened to a better guy. my disgust with this whole scene reached its zenith yesterday or two days ago, when i convinced myself that reading the Rolling Stone cover story on "Panic!" would somehow prove rewarding, if only for a laugh. i got about a few paragraphs deep when i slammed head on at 120mph into a reference to the guitarist not having time for lunch because he spent the afternoon packing his Dior bag. jesus.

so there he is on the ground. you see him? bleeding? poss not def. surrounded by his bandmates and hangers on, maybe some security. stay down. don't bother getting up. fight's over.

many moons ago, yeah yeah yeahs frontwoman karen o was playing an intimate gig in New York when an overhead stage monitor came crashing down unexpectedly. fortunately for the monitor, ms. o broke its fall. after regrouping for a few minutes, she shot up, dusted herself off and got right back to raging out.

and isn't that what it's all about? the rage. something the mainstream these days seems to know little (or nothing) of. so let it be heard, across the land. a decree. death to the cubes, the highlighters, and the neon stripes and checkered throngs of hopeless hipsters, and the boys in girls' jeans. death to the fray, the conglomerate, and the mogul. death to the bastard offspring of the real lovers and fighters. death to the whole pussyfied batallion, the dullards and the phillistines burning up our oxygen. get off our fucking porch. we don't want what you're selling.

vive le cirque.