They Called it By Name.
I wasn’t sure I was going to type about this.
Talking about it is bad enough.
But I feel compelled. For humility? For my own denial? For the small chance they see this and get their fucking act together? Who knows.
It all started with a haircut.
Frankie went to get his hair did in the city Saturday. He sees this ultra hip guy at the same studio I go to, Arrojo downtown. I’m sure they gossip like little girls, salon chairs and fingers in your hair does that to a person. But I never thought he’d come back with a story so heartbreaking, so utterly disappointing. Here goes:
“So I was talking to my hairstylist and he has a friend that’s a stylist, like fashion. So she got a job to style *Enter Beloved Band Name Here*. You wouldn’t believe what happens. They come in and as she starts to dress them they say: We only wear Prada.”
I need not go further except to say she took black shirts and sewed a Prada label in them.
What am I suppose to do with that? You cancel shows, you cancel tours, you talk down to US fans (yes, you had some before your shit album. Remember those people?), and then you think showing up to a shoot and being a pretentious fuckwad won’t get out to the wrong people. The people that liked you for the coke penis, weed smoking, whiskey drowning, bar fighting Southern gentlemen.
I don’t feel like I can buy your tickets, why get my hopes up again?
I don’t feel like I can support your new musical adventures, especially when you’re on camera talking about how it’s like watching a “smut film”.
I don’t even feel like I can stand up for what I thought the band used to mean…when you only wear Prada. Prada?
I get cohesiveness, I understand the bigger image. Hell, maybe Prada is the most manly label they happen to know.
But listen Dick Divas, you have your people call her and tell her before the day of. Like who the fuck you are.
For your sake #6 better smell like the fingers of freshman boys and taste like the bong water I’d love to spill on your Prada.