New York has always had its share of aspiring artists which certainly includes musicians.  While I respect the Peter Pan-like struggles of artists and their refusal to let go of the dream–it should be mentioned–a fair amount of those who MUST let go.

My survey of fallen rockstars has recently fallen into some of these criteria:

1) those who have worn gold-rimmed aviators as they move through the scene and wear them at all times even in times of tragedy or grief, 2) own at least one or two velvet coats 3) have no musical talent whatsoever yet insist they do, this includes the Pixie like screamers on the tracks.  4) carry zero semblance of groundbreaking music i.e., still stuck in the CBGB genre (probably read: Please Kill Me a hundred times) 5) typical haters of fellow soundalikes who made it…”the Yeah Yeah who’s?” 6) press buttons on synthesizers and carry no vocal pitch, 7) open their own bars to worship themselves.

One of my favorite reviews of a band  (via Pitchfork) is quoted below and yes, I wish I had written the piece.

“It can’t hurt that Sevigny’s sister’s been pushing the Christiane F. look in the UK trades– complete with open sores– but it’s not Chloe’s fault that it took her 30 year-old brother this long to figure out that it’s easier to make it in music than movies. Kicking around New York for fucking ever, Paul’s finally put together a scam that’s paying off: holding down three keys on an old Casio. His sister slipped then-boyfriend Jarvis Cocker a copy of their tape last year.”— Chris Ott, 2003 (continue the review here).

While the boys of old might still be kicking around, and trust me, they are…they’re still hanging on and it ain’t pretty especially since they now wear Lacoste coupled with pricey Nike Boxing Shoes and free PBR longnecks.  Or Miller Lite; yes the “Champagne of beers!”

Danggggg…I hope (at least) the Lacoste is real.

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