I’m sitting on my front porch on a beautiful September afternoon, ignoring the household chores and grading I’m supposed to be doing in favor of watching The Sputnix onscreen, currently frozen on my iPad for the past two minutes, holding their instruments and looking all kewl.
Actually, I don’t think that’s what’s supposed to be happening. I got a notification that they were jamming in Dewey’s garage, and not being a complete Philistine, I frantically queued up my iPad, iPhone, computer, and all other devices I could think of to watch this spectacle of raw musicmaking take place. but so far, the image has been frozen for about 30 seconds, and like a heroin addict standing outside his dealer’s apartment, I’m starting to get the jimmies a little bit.
Actually, I have to go to the bathroom. But it’s still pretty cruel. To be that close to the rock, and to not hear the rock? Please.
But what I did hear rocks, though. They did a cover of a song I’m pretty sure I heard back in the 90s, and they did some originals that I know for a fact that I heard on Spotify. But then Dewey started scratching himself, and the video froze.
Is this the show? Is this their schtick?
Is this what 2020s music is all about? I am so far behind the times, I don’t even know. I remember the good old days when you painted your face white, but the heads off rodents, drank their blood and lit yourself on fire. I remember the 90s, when your act only had to consist of recognizing consumer culture sucking the life out of everything you hold dear, and being able to make money singing about it. I vaguely remember the 2010s, when you had to play, I don’t know, something sounding like Arcade Fire. But this is something new.
The Sputnik are entering a whole new hemisphere of music, an era yet to be plumbed, a region hitherto unexplored. And this band is right there at the forefront, showing us what it means to play music while simultaneously rearranging your genitals in your too-tight underwear. Just like Chris Dewey is doing right now.
So until I hear otherwise, I am glued to this iPad. I will be on my porch, come hell or high water, waiting for the magic to take place once again. I don’t care if it takes them 15 minutes to fix the streaming issue, or if it takes Dewey 20 minutes to rearrange his testicles, or if it takes 40 minutes for the band to get bored and do something else entirely. I’m here. I’m waiting.
I have to go to the bathroom. OK, I’ll be back in five and I’ll begin waiting then again.
