Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The Animal Collective Hates Fat People
I went to a concert last night. It was nice. I got in for free, and didn’t feel like drinking, so I spent some cash on other stuff instead. The last time I bought clothing at a concert was probably in 1998, maybe 1999. Generally band shirts are a horrible idea, and no-one over the age of 21 should be wearing them outside of pick-up softball games and lawn-mowing Sundays. But last night, while standing in line to pay for a couple of records, I inexplicably had the urge to buy myself an Animal Collective t-shirt. I mean, this was about as inexplicable as inexplicability can get, as their shirts were pretty fucking ugly. Still, though, wistful nostalgia coursed through my body (I was, like, just fucking lousy with wist, dude), and, after gang-raping my sober adultesque sensibilities, it impelled me to buy a shirt. There was one problem, however; the Animal Collective apparently doesn’t want fat people wearing their clothes. The largest size they had was large. They completely hate fat people. Of course they had tons of baby tees, but nothing for the husky, hefty, and/or healthy gentleman (and/or lady). Perhaps they expect their fanbase to be comprised solely of those sickly, malnourished indie-rock scarecrows that crumple like a tumbleweed at the slightest gust of wind or most glancing blow from a frat-boy’s fist. That is most certainly not the case, as I am clearly both a man of great substance and a strongly devoted aficionado of the Animal Collective’s idiosyncratic strand of post-modern noise-folk nonsense. I have as much of a right to impress friends and strangers through advertising my own personal tastes and predilections on my outerwear as anyone else does. The fact that the Animal Collective fails to agree with me mightily burns my ample chops. Of course I can’t expect any of the bandmembers to sympathize, as the four of them together probably weigh less than the Canadian Earthquake.
But despite being both dangerously skinny and insensitive to the feelings of the morbidly obese (and/or marginally larger than your average college radio dj), the Animal Collective continue to produce some of the most enchanting and peculiarly affecting music around. I recommend them from the bottom of my cholesterol-clogged, fat-suffocated heart.
I went to a concert last night. It was nice. I got in for free, and didn’t feel like drinking, so I spent some cash on other stuff instead. The last time I bought clothing at a concert was probably in 1998, maybe 1999. Generally band shirts are a horrible idea, and no-one over the age of 21 should be wearing them outside of pick-up softball games and lawn-mowing Sundays. But last night, while standing in line to pay for a couple of records, I inexplicably had the urge to buy myself an Animal Collective t-shirt. I mean, this was about as inexplicable as inexplicability can get, as their shirts were pretty fucking ugly. Still, though, wistful nostalgia coursed through my body (I was, like, just fucking lousy with wist, dude), and, after gang-raping my sober adultesque sensibilities, it impelled me to buy a shirt. There was one problem, however; the Animal Collective apparently doesn’t want fat people wearing their clothes. The largest size they had was large. They completely hate fat people. Of course they had tons of baby tees, but nothing for the husky, hefty, and/or healthy gentleman (and/or lady). Perhaps they expect their fanbase to be comprised solely of those sickly, malnourished indie-rock scarecrows that crumple like a tumbleweed at the slightest gust of wind or most glancing blow from a frat-boy’s fist. That is most certainly not the case, as I am clearly both a man of great substance and a strongly devoted aficionado of the Animal Collective’s idiosyncratic strand of post-modern noise-folk nonsense. I have as much of a right to impress friends and strangers through advertising my own personal tastes and predilections on my outerwear as anyone else does. The fact that the Animal Collective fails to agree with me mightily burns my ample chops. Of course I can’t expect any of the bandmembers to sympathize, as the four of them together probably weigh less than the Canadian Earthquake.
But despite being both dangerously skinny and insensitive to the feelings of the morbidly obese (and/or marginally larger than your average college radio dj), the Animal Collective continue to produce some of the most enchanting and peculiarly affecting music around. I recommend them from the bottom of my cholesterol-clogged, fat-suffocated heart.
