Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Pissing on the Satellite Party.

I just got through reading this item on Stereogum, and while it was by no means, in and of itself, the inspiration for this post, it was largely, the straw that broke the camel's back for me. Maybe it's been said before, but it's just not said enough: Perry Farrell is a fucking fraud.

It pains me to say that, as I have a soft spot in my heart for Jane's Addiction (even Strays), and i largely give them (and Pearl Jam) a lot of credit for teaching a generation of metal fans to develop a modicum of self-respect. Still, the inescapable truth is that Farrell is little more than a drug-addled twat. He's always claimed way too much credit (and not nearly enough blame) for Lollapalooza, totally douched it up latching on to the techno craze, and basically struts around with an unbelievably vast opinion of himself he's done nothing to deserve.

Take this Satellite Party shit. To hear Farrell talk about it, it's like he's unlocked the Arc of the Covenant of something. He talks about his shitty band in these terms that you'd have to have ingested two huge Aaron Sorkin-loads of shrooms to even halfway believe. He tells interviewers that on UltraPayloaded, he's more or less created the music that will instantaneously unlock the mysteries of the celestial spheres and douse the listener in fluffy bunny rabbits and orgasm-inducing ambrosia and that the experience will be tantamount to seeing the face of God. In the first place, Fergie is a collaborator on this record, so you know this is just an impossible claim from jump, but sadly, his prize gimmick is some moldy old field recording of Jim Morrisson, saying only fuckadoo knows what. Christ, I'm surprised there isn't a whole room full of tapes with Morrisson blabbing on them--if they don't exist it's only because someone who loved him burned them.

Farrell likes to talk talk talk about what a pants-crapping genius he is, and every time I read something from him, it's all I can do to not reach inside the magazine and strangle him like a rabid hamster. For all his messianic bluster, his non-Jane's output is basically a pile of dreary sludge and as an artist, he's totally incapable of carrying Third Eye Blind's jockstrap. And that's sad, because Sixpence None the Fucking Richer can carry Third Eye Blind's jockstrap six days a week, twice on Sundays.

3 comments:

Jon said...

You forgot to mention that he's the only human being on the planet who makes money by singing and has a more irritating voice than Sting.

rock_ninja said...

" Still, the inescapable truth is that Farrell is little more than a drug-addled twat."

Where's that post running around the interwebs about the Truth? Can this be added?

tom said...

Actually, I'm pretty sure that Sixpence None The Richer are busy with church on Sundays. But they could probably just arrange to carry his jock three times on Saturday -- it'll all work out.