The Bookhouse Boys Are Instrumental In The New Love Revolution
by The Bookhouse Boys

The Bookhouse Boys are a banditry metal band from Oregon. They had been driving around the US on their first “international” tour, filling us in on their goings-on, but they ran out of gas and fans about 5,000 miles in and stopped to work in a motel in Florida. They are Alex (bass), Carl (vox), France (guitar), Joe (drums), and Neila (keys, vox).

The Bookhouse Boys are vomiting ingenuity left and right, but no one takes notice. We’ve decided to go underground, which may not seem like such a brilliant idea since no one’s ever heard about us, and that’s really our whole purpose for being around: to get the word out. The word being blazing decisiveness.

The supposed loose interpersonal morality and real social concern of the 1960s gave birth to the supposed loose interpersonal morality and concern for little (save looking like shit) of the 1990s. In truth, though, the 90s folks were uptight as hell in their heyday, and the Baby Boomers didn’t end up doing much but telling old stories about how it used to be. I mean, sorry Pavement, and thanks for the memories, Bill Hicks (we wish you both weren’t dead). Valiant effort, Ginsberg. (It’s too bad you’re dead, too.) Jefferson Airplane, on the other hand, you’re shit for turning into Def Lepard, then a webpage. And the son of both eras, Mr Bill Clinton, thanks for digging the channels for Mayflower 2001 to sail all the fuck up and down the country, drowning all dissent. You’re a real son of your uncles (Sam and Tom).

These are America’s two most socially vocal generations. And, other than thinking back about how cute it was when we first learned about E-mail or dope, neither accomplished shit because, in both cases, the underground blew up too fast for a lasting significant change to be made—either beneath the system (causing it to cave in) or within it (wherein the system would assimilate the underground’s ideals).

But it’s hackneyed to go back on all this, no? We (you, readers) are complainers. That’s why The Bookhouse Boys have gone underground. And the best part is, it’s quite literal. We’ve found a cave near us. Can’t tell you where, though, as we don’t want it sullied. Far as we can tell, nobody knows about it but a couple of whalebones. We’re going to sit in that cave and make some decisions. We’re born thinktankers; if somebody would just put us the fuck on a world crisis somewhere. Go ahead and pen us up inside the Beltway—we’re idea machines. We’ve got plans that’d sober Moses. These ideas don’t get us very far in a cave, though, which is pretty great. We’re done with the neighing and nagging, that shit’s for the birds (horses). And we’re done with trying to impress on people the importance of personal voice. We’re sick of trying to impress people with our personal voice. But, personally, we like to talk to each other a lot.

What if we were a band that didn’t play music at all? What if our music was a seminar about communicational theoretics? What if our instruments were our hearts, and they played love? These aren’t really our new ideas; we just wanted to set you off the trail a bit. Like we said eighty-eight words ago, we’ve given up on large-scale impressions. We’re focusing on Bookhouse Boys only. There are five of us. As far as we can tell, none of us has tried to fuck each other yet, which is pretty amazing.