In the meantime
the suits have an idea
(they have many ideas)
“we need to ramp it up”
“refine your reputation”
“create an illusion of independence”
“blitzkrieg the demographic”
Their plan is to release a live EP
of songs from the LA club circuit
which has to be just about the worst way
to launch a career
but they give us ten grand
and shoo us away
“leave it up to us...”
six weeks later
copies of Live ?!'@ Like A Suicide
released on the non-existent Uzi Suicide label
they set up in our honour
are in our hands and already I know
tell its the biggest piece of pointless shit
ever committed to plastic.
They put it on the Geffen stereo and I
immediately flip out when I hear
the sounds of the crowd over-dubbed on afterwards
an inferior version of ‘Mama Kin’
and see a logo I didn’t give approval of;
only the cover of me and Duff
up-lit in red looks rad.
It’s nowhere near enough to placate me so
I start making threats: “Over my dead
body will Guns debut with this hunk o’ junk.
We want complete artistic freedom.
We’d sooner take it to Sony, right guys?”
I look around me; the band have their
chins burrowed in their chests.
So I smash a Wang Chung gold disc, storm out,
and hit The Strip for some placatory drink and sex.
The EP is released the following Monday
and sells out its 10,000 pressing
within days, becomes a cult on export
Everyone’s happy, apart from me.
I still think it sucks.