Your typical acid trip
This phenomenon is often witnessed between friends who feel their consciousnesses become one.
This just in: Fuck Bill Haslam.
Your typical acid trip
This phenomenon is often witnessed between friends who feel their consciousnesses become one.
This weekend, Blacksburg, VA played host to a music festival of a different kind. Hosted at several bars and art galleries around town, local and regional musicians of all stripes and abilities played with varying degrees of fever. I ended up managing part of a show, running the sound for a few bands, playing an open-mic, and photographing every single set I was a witness to. Problems aside, I had a good time.
I arrived in Blacksburg and parked within a hundred feet of the NLCF building, check in for the Fever to Sing festival. I spent over a half hour wandering around the block looking for any sign of a festival, stumped. I looked up the address and found my way on in. Several artists and musicians I interviewed had the same trouble. There was no signs, no groups of people coming or going, but the gears were churning inside.
The organizers were putting things together using some kind of online system, stressing and fretting over laptops wherever they went. The sound guys were often late, or unreachable, or went missing, but for the most part the bands were well on time and ready to go when needed. I changed the schedule, manually, with a pen on at least 50 fliers because certain shows were very much more than an hour late to begin. I suppose I was a volunteer too, as well as impromptu press, musician, and management.
There was a some awful trash that I wish I’d never seen. On the other hand, I saw great acts, such as the Bastards of Fate, the Andalusians, and Don’t Call Us Sweethearts.
The Bastards of Fate defy all explanation. Doug Cheatwood is a performance genius beyond compare. His songs are imaginatively written and musically unique, defying rules I didn’t even knew existed. Standing on an amp, holding up a guitar, blinded by shaving cream, construction light draped over his shoulder, and mic in hand, Doug Cheatwood is no gimmick hungry rocker. He is what punk rock was never smart enough to be, crazier and more ambitious, full of antics that wake sleepy fear-ridden audiences into a frenzy of dance and jubilation. Did I mention that the music’s catchy, well-written, and like nothing you’ve heard?
The Andalusians were a punkish woman-fronted band from DC, with loads of energy to back up their fun music. Such well written music played by obvious professionals was a welcome treat, and I especially appreciated how grounded and personal their presence was. These were proud, powerful women who were absolutely comfortable on stage and off. Sadly, that’s not something I see often. They were reminiscent of the best bits of The Clash.
I didn’t run the sound for Don’t Call Us Sweethearts, although I was supposed to. One faux member of the group who played a little percussion felt the need to do the sound, although I had to inform him on how to use the mixer. Thankfully with my help he was able to do a passable job, and truly could have done little to diminish the silky-smooth vocals and soft melodies of Don’t Call us Sweethearts. The performance was emotionally charged and musically superb. Though I tend to think their particular kind of songwriting is generally boring, there was no lack of excitement during their performance. Don’t Call Us Sweethearts had a friendly, warm presence that everyone picked up on.
The good was good, but the bad got very bad. I don’t mind bad music, or late shows. There’s just a small list of things I expect musicians to NOT do, which almost always ruin the appeal of the performance. Fever to sing had a few good examples.
Musicians who do these things defy all logic, and must be proud of how amateur they are. Since we’re mean bastards here at Elf Wax, and want to harm those who we dislike, here’s a list of bands and musicians you should never, ever see.
I was there to help you run sound, and you refused my help probably just because I am a man. I hope you enjoyed spending 5 minutes going back and forth between the mixer and the microphone to satisfy your own misguided foolish pride. You’re not a bad musician, but probably a bad person. I have nothing against Lesbians, in fact I rarely have sex with women who aren’t Lesbians. I was enraged by your song about how everyone in Virginia but the Lesbians are hateful fucks. Now Elfwax.com hates you, and it’s not just your imagination this time. You can tell everyone we hate you just because you’re a Lesbian if that makes you feel better.
The Elf Wax Times went to great lengths to teach you kids a lesson. And here it is.
[SWF]http://www.elfwax.com/wp-content/uploads/dick%20in%20socket.swf, 550, 220, var1=val1&var2=val2[/SWF]
Many thanks go out to Calvin Hart for sending in this video, even after everything we did to him.
Richmond, Va.–Elf Wax Times went deep into the seedy underground of the Richmond music scene to find Larry And His Flask performing songs of hate around midnight of the 23rd at Cous Cous. Motherfuckers jammed.
The vocals harmonized nicely with the guitars, but all the assholes dancing around The Elf Wax Times staff were rude and did not respect others’ personal space. The authorities were notified, however no arrests have yet been made because the police are lazy scumbags who’d rather insufflate an eight ball of confiscated blow than arrest college students, although that is their second priority because nobody was nice enough to hang out with them during high school to make sure they don’t power trip in the future.
So there were VCU pigs walking up and down Grace St. late last night. On a Monday night, there’s hardly a dude worth fucking with but the police found him: an old crippled guy in a wheelchair was sitting in a recessed doorway, pointed toward the wall when some dick cop approached him asking, “What are you doing here?” to which he responded, “I’m just chilling out.”
The Elf Wax Times did not stick around to make sure civil rights were respected because we have no compassion for even the seemingly homeless. Our apathy overrides even the most basic instincts of decency especially in the presence of law enforcement. This is because we have taken copious amounts of LSD, psilocybin mushrooms, morning glory seeds, Hawaiian Baby Woodrose tea, pills, duster, and the synthetic compound known as 2C-I. No big deal, but we ate that shit all at once, so fuck that guy in a wheelchair.
And fuck you. Larry and his flask will be on tour with the Dropkick Murphys (or whatever those fags are called), unfortunately opening for the bastards even though everybody knows it should be the other way around. Fuck mainstream music and fuck you for liking it.
Fuck the government for sponsoring Elf Wax Drunkenness and fuck your mother’s failed abortion that became you. We don’t like you and don’t want you reading The Elf Wax Times because you have not taken the sworn oath drug-influenced Elf Wax piety. When the revolution comes, you’ll be forced to eat fourteen doses of acid and watch The Wall while we drill messages of fear and totalitarian government control into your enfeebled brains. In your offtime we do respect your right to smoke cigarettes but not to religion. For religion, you must turn to Carl Sagan for guidance because unlike the rest of humanity you are now a glowing ray of light, no longer bound by the human form, for you can – and do – understand and know everything under the sun. In fact, you control it.
Now get fucked up watch FOX News because it’s what you’re designed to relate to – not us. We aren’t you and you’ll never be one of us. You’ll always be a fucking scum-sucking whore of the capitalistic enterprise over our freedoms of self. Wal-Mart owns you now, and Target is where you rebel. China runs our shit, and America strives to become them. Countries’ only meaning lies in how we identify ourselves. With enough trade, this will change and our so-called “identities” will meld with the world-dominating enterprise of necessity. We’re fucking doomed to live on and serve into perpetuity the human plantation we helped create. We, and free enterprise, which should also be destroyed or undermined by faithful Elf Waxers. Destroy yourselves, and you’ve destroyed the government’s income. Well done, suicide machines.
Vote against freedom. It’s what Elf Wax would do. It’s what you have been conditioned to do. But don’t be surprised when the voice of protest sounds like a large group of angry bluegrass musicians who don’t even sit down to play the drums.
He’s holding a self-serving youtube contest to obtain the more pathetic of these. Elf Wax entered, but we haven’t heard back. Well, put on your Wax Goggles and get a load of this guy:
Almost needless to say, Chris Crocker did not choose him, even though this entrant said Crocker “sets a good example.” Regardless, he “means business,” and “will hurt somebody who tries to hurt [Chris Crocker].”
REVIEW: This video is to the point and strikes adoration relentlessly into your heart. Chris Crocker, if you don’t want him, Elf Wax’ll have him.
-The Elf Wax Times staff (especially the gay staff)
Some time has passed since the release of Infinity Ward’s newest installment in the reluctantly-named Call of Duty series. This is why the Elf Wax Times has gone untouched for one week, with the exception of the new Lightning Ticker which adorns our beloved header. The Lightning Ticker is based on the Elf Waxian concept of the “Lightning Study,” currently in production at Lebal Drocer Laboratories, involving only a glance at raw facts and data as a means for writing an informed report. You’re welcome.
Our entrenched reporter, Viet Zam, has been in Modern Warfare 2 since it spawned November 10. Having received no contact from him in 72 hours, he is presumed dead.
The staff writers, the Media Mogul himself, Cold Hard Truth, billb(o), and Noah [biblical figure], have concluded that Modern Warfare 2 on Playstation 3 is the Official Game of The Elf Wax Times, and so should you. We’ve rated the game 10/10 and found that it contains nothing harmful to society or individuals unless ground into a fine dust and inhaled.
The only real problem with the game is that it keeps us from bringing you the truth. But, doesn’t that figuratively stand for truth? Shit, we’d be liars just by printing something. You don’t want to read something we didn’t want to write, and we don’t want to write shit you don’t wish to read, so we hope you’re enjoying Modern Warfare 2 as much as we are here at The Elf Wax Times office.
Being too busy playing MW2 to review, we decided to get some outside help on this one. YouTube provides a service for us all, and Viacom. Check out what our guest critic had to say about the game:
I awoke on New Years day to the usual yammering of Cartoon Network’s early morning programming. I stood up to deactivate the horrible noises, when I realized I was in the guest bedroom. How drunk had I been last night? I forgot. How’d I get home? Man, I had no answers, except I knew I was thirsty. Stumbling to the fridge, waves of nausea coarsed through my whole body. I found nothing but Orange Juice and quickly finished what was left of the container. I felt my brain inside my skull, screaming to get out. I threw the empty box across the room and missed the trash can completely. I returned to my room, and as I sat down, a second, much more intense wave of nausea came over me. Quickly thinking, I packed a gravity bong. Weed cures nausea, and maybe numb the throbbing inside my skull, at least that was what I was thinking. I was able to inhale half of the bong and then cough and puke into the water bucket at the same time. Of course I wasn’t done, all the OJ had to go. When the watery yellow vomit was all over the ground at the foot of my deck, I started to dry heave for about 10 minutes. Teary-eyed, half stoned, and worse off than I was before, it was all I could do to sip on a glass of water and watch the storyline of Pokemon 8 unfold before my eyes. At least vomiting off my deck made me feel relieved after the dry heaving.
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