Ok. We’ve got an installation due for the New Year, but Bailey’s and grocery-store eggnog kind of snuck up on us, so we’re just now emerging from about a ten-day lost weekend and need a little help.
This is what we’re thinking: we’re going to give some ass-terrible grindcore bands their big break. It’ll be like American Idol meets
American Movie meets...I don’t know...maybe
Wet Hot American Summer.
People like Matthew Barney and the Museum of Contemporary Canadian Art have slowly been working extreme music into the art world by getting talented extreme musicians out of their usual habitats (caves and castles and graveyards and what-have-you) and putting them in museums so your average Joe-on-the-street can see that these people have elevated what they do to an art form. That’s great.
But here’s the problem: they’re getting
good musicians. They need to get crappy musicians. We spent the better part of the 20th century proving that art doesn’t have to be good to go in museums, and now we’re backtracking. No! This is wrong.
So we’re calling the world’s worst extreme bands. If you’re seventeen and don’t know how to play guitar but you make noise with the neighbor’s kid who’s thirteen because he’s the only one you know with a drum kit and parents who’ll let you turn your amp up past three, or if you’re fifty and you used to be in Ratt but now you’re trying to earn some street cred or if you’re anywhere in between – but just so long as your band really, really sucks – drop us a line, but pronto.
We’ve got gallery space and a deadline, we’ll build replicas of your practice spaces and let you bang away for the cognoscenti...which, let’s face it, is a better deal than you’ll get from anybody else.
Vince out.
Note to those little
Brazilian kids on YouTube – don’t bother applying. You’re too good.
