Over the last month I have received thousands (literally thousands) of emails about SXSW. Between press releases, media inquiries, editorial email chains, pitches, and assignments, my entire Internet existence has been strangled to death by anxious white people trying to make other anxious white people care about new things. This is okay; this is how it is every year. It’s fun.
So instead of actually responding to some of these emails and scheduling interviews or meetings, I wrote down some of the words from each of the subject lines I received, and made a short poem. This is essentially like peeing in the face of every PR person who toiled all day and night to try and get their band coverage during SXSW, but oh well. Enjoy!
Happy shapes, decent?
Goldest lineup, flaunt death, fear swamp, thanks!
Lounge shows, Pitchfork is Olympia. Alpha can’t fuck with psychic now.
Tuesday. Remix. Fear!
Pyschedelic daily party @ thee creative royal warp.
Kitten witch, Free Matador. Surefire swamp.
Both sides listen. Band is green, little.
Reminder. Videographer extend. Premieres meat.
Warner propeller. Dumpstaphunk soundtrack. Best ruins feature baths.
Story night. French day. You’re not music.
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