So our resident incorrigible critical curmudgeon, Sean Maloney, caught wind of a bit of a '90s revival going down this evening at the Wildhorse Saloon. He wrote a Critic's Pick on the affair, and you know what? It's almost kind of forgiving, in a way. OK, maybe not. But I like the "mulch-gargling" bit:
Three of the greatest bands in the history of greatness, united on one stage to perform the single most awesome show that's ever been awesome. April Fools! This isn't actually a show; it's a trap to lure in thirtysomething lame-Os and blast them into oblivion, Logan's Run-style. Yep, it's all a nefarious plot to eliminate anybody old enough to remember when there was no question what the definition of "is" was or when Google wasn't even a website, never mind a verb in the dictionary. 'Cuz ya know what? You're old and uncool. Although if you're actually thinking about dusting off the ol' Doc Martens for a night's worth of mulch-gargling vocals and overdriven alterna-chords, you might not have been that cool to begin with. Seriously -- Sponge?
Yesterday afternoon, Adam Gold received an email with a subject line reading "Wildhorse write-up." Though the "reply" email address indicated that the sender was someone in Sponge's camp, the 931 area code in the sender's phone number suggested otherwise.
The email read thusly: "HA, HA ... Fuck you and Sean Maloney." Why Gold, right? What did he do? Well, he did pen this Critic's Pick on Bret Michaels' performance at Wildhorse tomorrow night, which mentioned the fact that Michaels' "bandanna-shrouded receding hairline is currently pop culture's most beloved elephant in the room, and the pot of gold at the end of every honky-tonk cougar's rainbow." OK ... fair enough. But you know what? I don't think either tonight's or tomorrow's shows at the Wildhorse are going to lose any respective post-grunge 9-to-5ers or panty-tossing cougars on account of our goofy stable of writers. Lost souls are lost souls.