Yesterday I went through all of the private messages I’d shared with Frank Gutch Jr, since I’d first encountered him. It was in 2013, just after I’d begun writing this weekly column, and right from that first message, it was as though we were separated at birth.
Damn! I thought I would finally get my start on that scathing look at the music industry’s constant propensity to shoot itself in the ass, but last week’s column by Jaimie Vernon got the adrenaline pumpin’ and here I am ready to trip the ego fantastic (though ego might not really apply here— read on and you’ll understand). You see, I too was an amoebic rock star wannabe back in the Stone Age (meaning pre-punk) before The Big Bang spewed rock stars and swamp gas like a shock wave from a nuclear blast and created the armpit we now know as the music biz.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 