“What the hell is that your listening to?” asked the cable repairman after spending about fifteen seconds in my apartment. The volume was down on “Powdered Fish”, but its techno-beated death still managed to puncture through the hissing fuzz of a snowy non-channel. “Avulsed,” I said to his freaked-out face, then added, “from Spain.” as if it may smooth his confusion. “O-K,” he said and started checking out the back of my television set. Dave Rotten began blurting out the title in a vomiting growl and I could see the repairman of twenty-something smirk behind the top VCR, then he said, “And my parents used to think I was weird for listening to AC/DC.” “Yeah, so did mine,” I said, and our silence marked a symbiotic revisit of the good old days (at least my silence did). He took out a pair of wire cutters and snipped something out of my view. He looked like someone who couldĚve had long hair a couple years back and I pictured him headbanging comically like Angus Young. “Petosuis Lobotomy” chimed and crackled into a more salable rhythm and just as much of a beat. “It sounds kinda techno,” he said from behind the set, and I was going to compare them to Fear Factory, but them decided it probably would have had the same effect as mentioning the quintet are Spanish: not much of one. I said, “ItĚs alright, if you like that kind of thing, yĚknow, death metal mixed with techno.” I could tell death metal wasnĚt something that entered his mind often. He did a few other things while half of “Gorroneality” pounded through with Godzilla-like squeals. The Braves game fluttered onto the screen and stayed. “Well, looks like youĚre all set. Anymore problems, just call,” he said. He handed me a slip of pink paper and nodded his head toward my stereo and said, “Play that funky music, white boy,” with a smile. I donĚt think he got the gist.
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