Let Us Speak of This No More

Or: not at least until the book and movie come out.

And suddenly…absolutely nothing.

So everything now is over. Everything but the screaming. I’ve often been asked how it is that I think men should best be. That is, if there were to be one generalized rule on how to minimize the potential damaging influence of your maleness, what would it be? And my answer has been and remains simple. A platitude, maybe, but it’s served in my good stead: shoulder your burden without complaint.

Because: no cares.

The court of last resort is YOU and no one wants to hear that you were potty trained wrong. This might seem inadvisedly like the greatest generation of men who prized strength and silence and then died from heart attacks way too early so I should add I’m not advising you to dummy up if you’re a man. I am advising against butthurtedness when the world does not return the love you expect you are due just because you have a penis.

All of this to say what you’re reading now is not a plea for pity. It’s just to do what this substack does and that is to open a window into what has most obsessed me in the prior seven days. Now I’d like to say it’d have something to do with Biden. Or Trump. Or even the fraudster and ex-boss of mine Carlos Watson’s trial.

But, yeah. The rest of the world has a handle on that. Besides which what’s fevered my mind has been my particular place in space and that’s the life and now ignominious death of OXBOW.

If you’re new here it begins here. And if you began there, there is now this.

Despite the fact that this took, unofficially 117 text exchanges to happen, the aforementioned statement confused some. Did it happen in a crowd? Or the crowd? Was the accusation regarding something sexual? Violent? Some wags joked that OXBOW was not known for “crowds” so how could whatever “it” was, happen during an OXBOW show?

I don’t think these were deliberate misreadings. I think these were just guesses. And beyond that there were expressions of sympathy, those who keenly felt that for 36 years of artistic achievement to get flushed down the toilet for a singular event seemed unjust in the greatest theological sense. Expressions of regret at never having seen OXBOW despite having told themselves they’d just see us “next time”. Expressions of sincere gratitude and joy over what the music meant to them and here as well, what it’s absence will also mean.

It was, and has been, in a word: heavy.

Then of course there are my favorite responses courtesy of the anonymous posters at Lambgoat.

Good, they are shit and always shit, f*ck this band!…

Does everyone in this band write like a civil war correspondent?…

And my personal fave: Yea the full statement is even more pretentious and narcissistic. I've been a fan of this dude in the past but holy shit this is embarrassing.

Which sort of really restores my faith in the fuel that’s kept me punching fools in the face for the better part of 43 years. However, given that I’ve been doing so for 43 years I’ve mellowed enough that I am just amused at the amusement with the catastrophic collapse of what could comfortably be called my life’s work.

So now days past and in the settling dust, I can stop hyperventilating and remember the rundown that my Gulf War medic friend has me do in the face of perceived tragedy: do you have all of your limbs? Are your genitals intact? Can you still see/hear/walk? And further down the list do you still have family and friends that love you who you also love?

If you can answer in the affirmative, and I can, you don’t have problems. You have…difficulties. So after informational calls to the great folks at Ipecac, our booking agents Vincent and Erik, our PR agent Lauren, our producer Joe Chiccarelli, as well as artists who were scheduled to be on our next record Follow Me Now in Merry Measure, the film maker from the fourth (as of yet unreleased) OXBOW documentary, pretty much everyone outside of the actual victim, there is some spread of peace. In my head most definitely. Everyone has been understanding, and saddened, and hoping for the best since the worst has already happened.

The tale is a cautionary one in the extreme, and if you’re making music or art for public consumption please don’t miss it. If you’re not making music or art for public consumption, please don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.

Outside of that, nothing remains to be said. Not by me at least.

So sitting in Basque Country in Spain where I’ve been filming new videos for BUNUEL’s next (and fourth) record, Mansuetude, that features Duane Denison, Jacob Bannon and Megan O. on it, I am thinking forward to touring the states on it, and beyond Europe, I think I am OK.

I’m thousands of dollars in debt because of this imbroglio, but that’s not your problem. I’ve got If the Shoes Fit podcast to do. Or the Bad Boss Brief. My own The Eugene S. Robinson Show Stomper. My monthly column in Decibel. A book show at TV EYE in New York on August 22.

And yeah, all of my limbs, senses, family and friends. Besides which, like people used to say about work, unless you plan to die at your desk, you were either going to quit (or get fired) at some point.

So here’s to not dying at your desk. And shouldering your burdens without complaint.

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OK…So you have ordered the memoir A Walk Across Dirty Water and Straight Into Murderer's Row, from Amazon…Or the Bookshop.Org dealie: Here?

Might you consider giving it a review in either of those places?

I’ve been told it matters, somehow. So please: review away! Unless you think it sucks. Then, maybe, just keep that part to yourself. At last count there were 62 reviews…so yeah…GET AT IT!!! Every one helps. Or so they tell me.

Also we WILL have books at TV EYE on August 22, 2024. If you already have one and want it signed? Bring it on over. I’ll do it. And might even spell your name correctly when I do.

FINALLY…and now that I have time on my hands…if you’d like to book a book show? Please DM.