“We are trying to close fifteen yards between the audience and us; and the White Stripes want that fifteen yards.” – Billy Childish
The title of this article is deceiving: I don’t have a garage. If I did, I’m damn sure I wouldn’t read inside one. The prospect of reclining on a pile of tools or sitting on top of a spare tire, slowly paging through a good read as the smell of oil pooling on the floor drifts up my nose… well, it doesn’t seem nearly as attractive as reading on the comfort of my couch. I just threw that in to be a shitty subtitle, which gives me something in common with the book I just finished reading, Eric Davidson’s We Never Learn: The Gunk Punk Undergut, 1988-2001.