Dear Tonight's the Night:

You are the finest record on earth, as I recall, to get high and play euchre to.

Fondly,

Brett

Dear EMI's Now That's What I Call Music compilation series,

Patricide is the answer.

Sincerely,
Bradley R. Montebianco

Dear White Trash, Two Heebs, and a Bean,

Yes, I used to love you. Used to. But I was young... naive, inexperienced.

I am sorry. I know we shared some great memories. Driving around in high school, getting stoned, thinking we were cool.

Yeah, I guess it was fun at the time. But you never properly introduced me to your much cooler parents: Who's Got the 10_1/2?, Double Nickels on the Dime, or Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables... among a slew of others.

You bastard.

Yes, you are a bastard. You would have never been what you were, were you not the secret bastard son of those parents. And you kept it a secret.

I think you wanted me all for yourself, I really do... and I don't know if I can ever forgive you for that.

Stop making me nostalgic, and if you make me laugh one more time, I shall become so conflicted and volatile... well, I can't be held responsible for my actions.

I hate you.

in memory,
George

Dear We're Only In It For The Food by Bloodcount,

I've been cheating on you.

...With your sister, "Average Daze" - but only once. Promise. She wasn't what I was looking for. To be honest, I don't know what I was looking for. I know I can't find what I need anywhere but in you. You're not like all the other Jazz cd's. We know why. You're the only one with balls. You know I can't come without balls. Its disgusting, it's vile, but its the way it is. A man needs that in a cd, baby.

I'm sorry, and I want to come back. Oh god, baby, we need some healin'. I might cry. Not on your nice jacket. Promise. You can let me explore your every crevasse. You know that's what I like best. I will let you drive away my customers, because I know that's what you like best. To see the looks on their faces! It'll be kinky, baby, it's just what we need. I love you. I love you so much, please let me come back. Please, baby. I love your balls.

-W

Dear Zuma by Neil Young and Crazy Horse:

You are such a clean record, production wise.

You are sincere and honest rock and roll.

By the time I get to Cortez the Killer, I am so enthralled it's fucking amazing.

You are the Duke of New York, You are A #1.

Dear Blow the Whistle by Too Short,

Just when I think music can't get any filthier, Todd Shaw has to proove me wrong. You're ode to enjoying having one's balls licked is as stupendous as it is flabbergasting.

Stay away from my mother.

Ben Adrian

Dear Nevermind,

I can't believe its been almost 15 years since we first met. I was so young then, almost 10, remember? But you were much older, and showed me many interesting things. I can honestly say I would not be the person I am right now without you. A lot of people don't like your production, and honestly, you certianly sound like 1991, but you did things to me no man had ever done before.

Sincerely,
tallchris

Dear Panda Park-

Where's the beef, man?

You fucking pussy.

-Wiggins

Dear Songs About Fucking,

Some of the sounds you made when we were together just killed me. It blew my teen-aged mind. It's been awhile since I've seen you, but I want to rekindle the passion.

Here's to your fuck,

mw

Dear Party Matches And Siren Sounds by Lonely Trailer,

I love you. I want to raise funds specifically just to re-issue you on my own vanity label, but first I must start up my own vanity label. I hope your master tapes are being stored/preserved well somewhere.

Your adopted parents at Mud/Parasol had their hearts in the right place when they surgically grafted most of your songs into a 2xCD compilation along with limbs from your brothers, but I still ache for you in your entirety.

You are a cassette only. You are not even an LP. This makes me weep for you, oh forgotten runt of the litter. You are actually the most magical.

I cannot even locate the original you. I have a magnetically reproduced clone. This is not enough for me. I need you. I need to fetish your packaging, even if it is only one spindly J-card. I can't even remember what you look like. No one in your hometown seems to know where you can be found either. You are an elusive mystery. You are only slightly more than a memory.

I am going home now, to make 27 CD-R copies of your magnetic clone. Even though these will be one more generation removed from your original sound, I sit on pins and needles everytime your clone is played. If the clone dies, I will have perhaps lost your forever. I hope you are alive and well somewhere, and not lying at the bottom of the Urbana landfill.

Love,
Carlin