I was all set to badmouth Vampire Weekend when they were to take the stage at Langerado yesterday, but the Ivy League louts denied me the privilege. Seems a little TV show called Saturday Night Live trumps Big Cypress, so the boy band decided to stay home and do their preening up in New York City.
And good for them that they did, too, for I would’ve been stage-front with an arsenal of barbs they might never have recovered from. Oh, not that I don’t like The Talking Heads, mind you; I just don’t dig eggheads redoing the talking, especially without half the vocabulary. And as much as I respect Paul Simon (mostly for the work he did with Garfunkel and for managing to land Edie Brickell), if I never hear Graceland again, it’ll be too soon – so why the hell would I wanna hear a band virtually rip it off?
Okay, so I’m not the first to bandwagon the backlash for the once critically-lauded darlings, but I was certainly among the initial gaggle. Not because I’m all that smart (though I am told I’m a smart ass), or because I’m all that stuck up (though snobbery does seem to become me), but because it behooved me to think that this was the kinda shtick that kids were bopping along too these days. I mean, jeez. Imagine if your most formative years were spent grooving to music fit for your first Volvo.
Yes, it is that twee.
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So, no Vampire this weekend, And I for one am glad. Saves me the trouble of trying to find a vein in all their bloodlessness. – John Hood