First of all let me say that I love what you're doing.....now. It's true, I doubted you a few years ago, mainly because your sound was a little loose. Perhaps I erred in my haste, or perhaps, like many things, you required an aging process to refine your delivery. Yes, now that I've had time to consider it more closely, I believe this to be the case. It has to be. Because gentlemen, let's be frank: a consumer's palate is a rigid, fixed thing without the need or the ability to change over time. Just saying it out loud gives one a chance to realize what a preposterous notion that is! I'm sure you agree.
Regardless of blame, I now find myself at a juncture which could be conducive to us both. As I'm sure you're aware, I've been highly critical of my (soon-to-be) former objects of obsessive fascination and reverence. As I wish no ill to befall them, I shall refer to them as An Dauerbach and Catrick Parney of the Klack Beys. After many years of faithful (some would say crazed, fanatical and borderline-disturbing) listening, my dear Klack Beys have released a shitburger. Not an album, mind you, but a burger. Made of shit. This is the most positive, glowing critique I can muster. I plan to issue a formal apology to all early Lings of Keon fans (who pre-date the "Fex On Sire" crisis of conscience), in a humble attempt at empathy and also to see if I can get one of those bitchin' torn sackcloths and some ashes to smear on myself.
*[editor's note: they told Adam to "get fucked, you sheep." Still bitter, those.]
In light of said shitburger, I am considering shopping my affectations. Some would say to simply ignore this latest offering if it so offends the senses, or at least revel in their glorious past works (which consist of equal parts virgin sacrifice, tire smoke, and Kunior Jimbrough's used lambskins, brewed with a general sense of nongiveafuckitude). This I cannot do; it's too painful. I once looked to my loves as harbingers of the badass, a dawning of pure driving rhythm and guttural, fuzzed-out steel after the long cold night of auto-tune and syth.
This has ceased to be.
Have I slept in the past 24 hours? No. Is this entire diatribe nonsensical? Yes. Am I asking myself easy questions to fill space? Maybe. But the truth remains: like Ronnie Van Zant said, I'm on the hunt. And I consider myself to be the paragon of fandom. When I go, I go hard. I may or may not own 3 separate copies of one particular Klack Beys album. *[editor's note: he does.] Now, Messrs Avett, you have the opportunity of a lifetime, here and now, to win the best fan you'll ever have. The choice is yours.
*[editor's note: Ok, he just crashed, finally. Christ. He had literally been up since 2am listening to a live version of "The Ballad of Love and Hate" on repeat, drinking an entire pot of coffee out of a giant orange Home Depot mug and screaming "PERFECT! FUCKIN' EPIC!" over and over. I think you sold him, Avett's. Well done. Or beware. A bit of both probably.]