Go Franz Go!

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, because May has been crazy. I’ve gotten more work at the same time as Erika’s been gradually moving back to working mode herself, and strangely enough we do not have time for anything. Okay, except for a fabulous visit from Leah and Lance, and socializing when we can.

But my point is, you’d think I would therefore have something sweet to say about Anna, or I’d catch you (whatever small minority you actually are) up on how she’s grown. Well, you’ll just have to wait. Instead, I want to offer this little ode to Franz Ferdinand (the band, not the man):

Why I like Franz

by Jeremy, age 35

I get in the car and pull out of the alley. I turn onto the street while my right hand pushes in the tape, hits the button on the adapter, and fiddles with the buttons on the Discman to turn up the volume because I need to replace the batteries. I get the CD player’s volume to 10, adjust the car’s tape deck volume, and rewind the track.

A few gentle strums on the guitar, a pouty English voice sets the stage before the attack begins, and then…

Sublime. Utter. Cool.

Wait, still need to change the fader so the less crappy front speakers are giving me all the sound‚Äînow I can crank it up a little further, and while I can visualize the tears in the speakers which are producing the buzz I can actually feel along with the bass, they aren’t too big. Yet. And it’s almost loud enough. There we go.

Okay, then, where was I? Oh, yes:

Sublime. Utter. Cool.

The crushing twangy guitar, the crisp definitive bass line, the tightness of the voice—it all combines in a Blondie-meets-Soft Cell-meets-PIL kind of way. I can feel it all coming back—that teenage angst, the cramped-up desire, the release that comes from shouting along to the music at the top of your lungs, the sexual ambiguity of rock heroes having lipstick and cropped hair and tight pants, the sheer Fascist sexiness of post-seventies new wave, punk, what-have-you beats these ragged speakers to a pulp and I feel like a Master Of The Universe.

I open up the sun roof, dangle my sunglasses off my nose, and feel the crisp clear air of the late spring morning. The Continental Divide gleams in the distance, the road is clear, and I am young again, and clearly I AM SO COOL despite the fact that my car is a somewhat neglected Honda Civic with a paint job going south, despite the fact that the sunglasses only have one stem loosely held on by the last screw and no longer even sit correctly on my face when they aren’t stored in the thin white plastic cup that is their resting place in the car’s cupholder.

So. Damn. Cool.

Well, I feel cool anyway‚Äîthey’re that good.

I think Franz Ferdinand will be the destroyer of these clearly long-abused factory special speakers.


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