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The Daily Cardinal Est. 1892
Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Say it ain't so, Nat

 

 

 

 

Well, gentle reader, although it may seem like ""Knowledge Enormous"" started running in the Cardinal just yesterday, the fact is it's been a whole year, so it seems that our time together is at an end.  

 

 

 

Oh, the times we shared: We chuckled smugly at the Valentine's Day review of the live Nine Inch Nails CD, we criticized a fledgling WSUM and we tormented our sensitive friends over the way they dressed. I'd give most anything to go back to such a beautiful, simple time, but there's nothing that can be done--time gets older, even children get older and I'll get older, too.  

 

 

 

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And, as far as I know, this marks the last chance I've got at a public forum to rant and I'll be damned if I don't make the most of it. Sometimes nothing's quite as effective as a laundry list of mad props and ill disses administered to those who've touched me during my tenure here, so let's run with it. All right? OK! 

 

 

 

Mad props to B-Side Records, 436 State St., for their obsessive commitment to quality inventory and insightful advice. Oh yes, and Alex. Thank you, thank you for Alex. Ill disses to ""Too Good To Stock Pavement"" Strictly Discs, 1900 Monroe St., and the indier-than-thou staff at Disc-Go-Round, 640 State St., although now that they're selling crappy knockoff guitars, maybe they've all been replaced by ""let's-jam-sometime"" guitar store guys. Who knows.  

 

 

 

Mad props to Pete Yorn for being a good sport during interviews, drinking cheap beer and proffering wads of cash to keep the karaoke going for another half hour. An ill diss to Pete Yorn for being a mediocre musician and spiriting away the one groupie that I really, really liked. 

 

 

 

Mad props to Neko Case for being the light of my life. Ill disses to Rhett Miller for being too exhausted to grant interviews. Pussy. 

 

 

 

Mad props to Bloodshot Records for having one of the finest artist rosters in North America, and always being quick and friendly in response to press requests. An ill diss to Saddle Creek Records, for being so shortsighted as to not realize that promotional copies of records--even charity records--tend to pad the bottom line. Besides, we all know that ""charity"" is code for ""Conor's mousse fund.""  

 

 

 

Mad props to Andrew W.K. for rocking so unbelievably hard, and for showing an interest in his fans that can go so far as an hour-long Thai dinner, on him. Ill disses to Eminem, who routinely ignores his fans and their little brothers, driving them to physically abuse Dido.  

 

 

 

Mad props to the people who put Club 770 together because, despite being the most cafeteria-like venue in the city, it's free, usually interesting and always a great social experiment. An ill diss to whomever booked Har Mar Superstar that time, though.  

 

 

 

Mad props to the Inn on the Park, for putting me through to Jeff Tweedy's room, even though I had absolutely no business bothering him at that late hour. Ill disses to all other hotels. 

 

 

 

Mad props to Maintain magazine for being, if nothing else, an enthusiastic exercise that makes for 15 minutes worth of class-time diversion, and employing the talents of our dear friends Matt Rodbard and Hayden Bush. Ill disses to Pitchforkmedia.com for being completely joyless and incapable of enjoying anything on an unironic level. You'll choke on that ""Ryan Adams Sucks"" graphic yet, you sons of bitches. 

 

 

 

Mad props to the Cardinal Arts staff, truly the cream of the crop, headed by two of the most able and scowly guys I know, always generous with the CDs and the constructive advice. An ill diss to the Cardinal's photo staff, for making me look so damn creepy each and every Wednesday. 

 

 

 

And, in the interest of fairness: Mad props to me for the last five columns or so, but ill, ill disses for all those album-review copouts, a wasted Neko interview, general malaise, being mean to my friends, not discovering Morphine until this late in life, bad kisses and bad dancing  

 

 

 

And mad props to Evan Rytlewski, who'll be filling this space with equally dope, if not superior, musical insight in the coming year. 

 

 

 

Peace. 

 

 

 

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