Dan, a guitar player in a psych-rock band called IndianFeather, writes a letter to his past self

Dan snapped the last pearl on his flannel and gazed into the mirror.  He stared deep into his mustache hairs.  He waited for them to offer him wisdom but they never spoke.  Fucking mustache, he thought, fucking mustache.   He lit an American Spirit and sat down at his typewriter. 

“Well me (you), it’s been four whole years since we came out here.  I remember the day I left.  Dropped out of the advertising program, cashed my student loans and bought the station wagon- West Texas or bust.  That was back when IndianFeather hadn’t found it’s sound yet.  I’m pretty sure we’ve found our sound now.  Actually, maybe we’ve found our sound- but that’s not the point.  I guess that’s why I’m writing…

You’ve probably just met Steve and Jason.  You’re probably still listening to Radiohead, wearing Ramones shirts, and reading David Sedaris.  You’re probably also wondering why your future self is writing to you.  I guess  I’m mystical enough to believe this note has some sort of power in this strange world.  You won’t understand right now, you don’t get into new age stuff for another two years.

Four years ago I came seeking the wisdom of the desert and the poetry of the night sky.  I dreamed that the reverb from my telecaster would echo through the lonely corridors of the mountains.  

When I first arrived everything was perfect.  I had never felt so free.  Free from society, free from the scene, free from whatever it is we’re supposed to be free from.  I got a job at gas station that sucked, but it didn’t matter because I was in control.  All the guys from IndianFeather followed me out here and we found an old house where we played music every day after work.  It really was magical.

You know- I did all the right things.  I decorated my apartment with Aztec art, slept with girls who dressed like my grandmother, refused to admit that I enjoyed watching Lost.  IndianFeather was good, we weren’t like Brian Jonestown Massacre good or anything, but we sounded like the Black Angels with cool harmonies and melodic keyboard arrangements.  Our keyboard player was this really cute girl with bangs and crazy glasses, we had a thing once.  Anyway, everything was cool.  We were rocking out, smoking weed, turning the reverb all the way up and- what do you know?  All these fucking kids come out here saying they like Native American art, they love reverb, they’re inspired by the West Texas sky, but I’m like, “no fucking way, I’m inspired by those things, get your own gig man.”  There was this band that moved here last year, they’re called SmokeFeather- what the fuck?  We’re IndianFeather, at least try to be original.  The worst part, they got signed two months after moving here.  I’ve been here for four years.  Four fucking years.  To make matters worse, last week we got a terrible review.  Some guy from Pitchfork somehow saw our band at a physch-rock showcase.  He wrote,

Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that “psych-rock” is in a dreadful state.  The deciphels of the Black Angels have missed their mark, by far.  Attempts to create a psychcadelic msucal experience have descended into a muddy puddle of sound that refuses to go move.  It is the embodiment of artistic apathy, which the musicans bask in, seeking nothing, finding nothing, playing next to nothing.  It is an hour long drone and a chance to pay $8 to take a nap at the local bar.  If the world would permit me, I ask all psych rock bands rename their genre to not-rock.  There is nothing physcadelic about 10 minutes of playing one note while you get a cute girl to play the tambourine.  It’s actually very un-psychcadelic.  If there’s one band no one should listen to, it’s IndianFeather.

My heart is broken.  Everyone who reads Pitchfork, aka anyone who’s anyone, thinks my band  sucks now.   It’s over- isn’t it?  What am I supposed to do?  Start a melodramatic 80’s post-punk band?  Everyone already jumped on that train.  I spent all my money on reverb pedals and weed.  I can’t afford a drum machine let alone a Moog.  I don’t know man.  I hope all the new age shit my girlfriend says is true and that on some astral level you recieve this and that maybe time really is a circle and I’ll wake up tomorrow in a melodramatic 80’s goth band with a record deal.  I really hope so.

Yours Truly,

You.”

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