Everyone goes home, seeks out some sympathetic tunes, and cries now and then. I know hardened punkers with Belle & Sebastian albums hidden under their futon. Let's face it, every rock 'n' roller needs a metaphorical teddy-bear to cuddle at times even if they'd never admit it -- hence the enduring spirit of indie rock. And thank Buddha for this often-ridiculed genre. A few weeks back it probably saved my life.
I knew things weren't right when I started puking before gigs, and my teetotaler boss was whispering in my ear, "Are you on narcotics?" The doc said my nervous system was shot to pieces from chronic exhaustion. She stuffed me with vitamins and chill pills, and came out with stuff like: "Salarymen can't do rock 'n' roll. You can't have so much fun and work. This is Tokyo."
I told my friend Stig this over a few beers and he said: "You got the entire Smiths back catalog and even a Belle & Sebastion album. Yes you do, I saw it! Quit the hardcore stuff and go see some of those indie-rock bands for a change. It's a moshpit-free zone. There are no punch-ups. No one gets drunk or takes drugs. It'll chill you out."