See: My Pain Hurts: Part One
My Pain Hurts: Part Three
10.13.98
Did Woodstock 5 yesterday. Some teen-age girl smuggled a flower in and handed it to me during the breakdown in "Juggernaut of Bad Feeling." I ate it and turned her over to Security. What does she think this is, the 60s or something?
Reminds me of the time Black Flag played at an organic farming commune outside of Santa Fe. Got so bummed out I attempted suicide by inhaling a lethal dose of patchouli oil. When I regained consciousness the band had tattooed a daisy over my iron cross and I cried to myself for the rest of the tour.
I guess they never liked me, although it was impossible to tell. Anyway, while I was recovering I met a girl I don't think I'll ever forget. Her name was Buttercup.
She wasn't like the others. Never told me my ideas were goofy or that my voice was like sandpaper or that my shorts were too tight. Never said that she liked my old band better or that maybe I should try a melody for a change. She never even laughed at my vision of a record and publishing empire or told me to just lighten the fuck up already. In fact she never said much of anything. Found out later she was deaf.
Sometimes I wonder, can't we all just get along?
11.14.98
Started work on the new album, "Bigger Than the Both of Me" this morning at 6 a.m. Drank a cup of my own urine to get me good and mad. Made the recording engineer drop and give me twenty. Punched a hole in the wall and just let it all out.
Life hurts. That's why my music does. I never met a song I really liked. Maybe "Freebird," but that's it. When you hear my music, you feel my pain. It's just that simple.
The band laid down versions of "Tooth and Claw," "Destroyer of Fun" and "Why Me" as well as an extended jam/therapy session called "Gilligan's Wake." Then I hit the mic in a blaze of testosterone and before most of you slackers had hit the showers this morning I had forty minutes worth of sound and fury.
While we're at it here I've got a few questions for the weak-kneed audiophiles out there that hate my records. How many sit-ups could Elvis Costello do during a vocal session? Can Prince balance a pair of JBLs and a sub-woofer on his head? Does Bowie really look good in a Speedo or is it just electrolysis?
See, a lot of the really important questions in music just never get asked. I've given up on appealing to the unwashed masses that sit up and beg for a good hook or a punchy pre-chorus. And aside from my Grammy nomination for the "I Don't Feel So Good" album the mainstream music establishment just never seemed to get what I do either. I put it down to fear, prejudice, ignorance and greed. Mental note -- that's a good name for the next album.
By Junior Downey
Junior Downey is the author of Greedy Media: The Blind Leading the Retarded and a past recipient of the PEN/Faulkner award for bad writing.