the world is a vampire...

After hearing American Gothic, I was sorta looking forward to this release. These first five tracks though... wow, I don't even want to listen to them a second time. And only five songs in seven months? How long is this 44-track project going to last?

widow wake my mind made me sick enough, they suck now.

although, to most of you they always have.

I admit I didn't like "Freak" quite as much the second time around...I think the problem is Billy Corgan keeps throwing in all these "la la la" types of vocal parts when he should just...well, shut up and play his guitar. But it's still better than the first four.

Another thing is it's basically just him and a backing band now. He once claimed that James Iha eventually drove him crazy, but I think the truth is that James actually kept Billy from veering off into ridiculousness too much, and that grated on his nerves because he felt like couldn't express himself fully.

As for American Gothic, I haven't heard it fully, but maybe if those songs were on Zeitgeist and United States (ties XYU for worst heavy SP song), Starz, and Pomp and Circumstance weren't, it might've been a better album.

i really like their first two albums.. (i know.. that has been repeated by others already) but they just really bore me after that, theres a few songs on the other albums that i will like but overall it isnt so amazing to me. however, im still a fan of them. actually, most of the bands i listen to get boring eventually. Nirvana for example, is my favourite band of all time, just something about their songs that made me so connected to the band the first time i heard them. but nevermind (especially) gets boring after a while, i can only listen to it every once in a while. i think every song on that album is great, but the song structure repeats for all of the songs except for "drain you" i guess. anyways, i have no idea where i was going with this but i decided to not just post "yeah everything on the new album for SP is horrible and billy corgan is a dick".

wait, what? 1100? link, please.

The thing with the Smashing Pumpkins is, I hate them and think they are massively overrated and Corgan is about the biggest prick in the world, but to each their own. Just because I don't like them at all doesn't mean others can't enjoy their music, so I generally just stay out of these debates since others share my feelings and post them quicker than I do.

My main problem with them now is how they are abusing their fan base. Zeitgeist was released in how many different forms? The Target one, Best Buy one, iTunes one, etc, all with a special bonus b-side. I'm sorry; That's pathetic. But then to release it again with different cover art, a bonus picture booklet, whatever is just further shit on the sundae. They were literally just trying to use their loyal fans to make them more cash from the same shitty album.

And now this 44 song project? Every few songs a new EP will come out in limited physical supply, which means it's going to have a bigger price tag for it's "rarity". Then, once all 44 songs are released, there will be another "limited edition" box set, composed of all the EPs they wanted you to spend a decent chunk of cash on already. That's absurd, even if you're already releasing the songs for free on the internet.

~Jeremy~

I think the inflated price for limited product is something that more and more established old bands are going to do. I don't think SP are alone in trying to recoup revenue in this way. I don't think it's that that makes them crap either - it's the fact that they're just crap, and always have been. Unless you're a mopey 13-year-old, and I'm sure we all listened to some right shite when we were little.

About 10 years ago, I was looking up smashing pumpkins lyrics, and counting covers, unreleased demos, etc. I remember a site listing 826 songs he had written then.

Now, with Zwan, the solo shit, more Pumpkins stuff, etc... I'm just taking a guess here, but I don't think 1100 is too unlikely, and I'm sure it's highly probably he's written more than that.

Casey Chaos from Amen once said he wrote and recorded 70 demos in a month for a band to pick through for his new album, and he's completely scrapped full albums and has appeared in tons of bands and always has had tons of b-sides and so on, and said once he's written and recorded a thousand songs, and those songs aren't simple at all. He wrote B.Y.O.B by System of a Down!

Rivers Cuomo, another extremely prolific songwriter, though his music has gotten simpler and simpler (though THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED has to be one of the craziest songs ever). He was once quoted as saying he wrote and recorded like 200 songs over the summer many years ago.

So, yeah, once a person understands the language of their music or whatever, it's not too surprising that these guys can write thousands of songs and whatever. Especially when most of them are pretty simple.

Pumpkins are pretty silly and whatever, but Vieuphoria is a pretty cool little movie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Mv1g-nETxc

Zeitgeist was released in how many different forms? The Target one, Best Buy one, iTunes one, etc, all with a special bonus b-side. I'm sorry; That's pathetic.

Agreed

Tons of bands do that now. Commerce.

What's funny is, I really like that one new Smashing Pumpkins song. .SUPERCHRIST... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Superchrist ... it's not on an album but they made a (really weird) video for it, with Sasha Grey.

Also, is Vieuphoria the dvd with the Frogs in it? The Frogs are the best band.

Sure is. So if I had to thank the Pumpkins for anything, it's for helping me discover The Frogs.

yeah, the frogs rule.

everyone should check out toy porno if they get a chance, one of the best things ever created..

When I saw the title of the thread, I thought it was about Keeping It Simple... but who cares about him anyway ?

yes it has the meet the frogs part, epic video really. I really liked the SP till that way to long album

In response to Billy Corgan's transphobic comments, slander, and threat of violence.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhVpCARW1iI&sns=fb

what's the difference between billy corgan and swa?

the answer - there is none.

the end.

The Secret Diary of Billy Corgan - aged 29 and 1/4
by "leafboy@ihug.co.nz (John Trenwith)"


Sunday.

Woke up. How very alienated I feel. The world in general, and MTV in
particular seems to be incapable of recognizing the full potency of my
creative genius. "1979" had a mere 47 airings today, and I feel my career
slip-sliding downhill. Hit on the idea of writing a quadruple disk free-form
operatic masterpiece, and James suggested I call it "The Singing Toad and
the Fourteen Manic String Balls Veering Happily Towards the Purple Lights of
Morning". Mental Note: Never let James write another song. Or for that
matter sing. I have been meticulously training Bugg Superstar as a backup
vocalist to compliment my whining style.

Monday.

I have decided to fire Flood and hire the Dust Brothers to produce my new
album. Flood sulked even harder than Butch Vig, but I stood firm. I must
uphold my image as an impulsive, artistic type. I have also ordered a
truckload of Macintosh computers, a few dozen drum machines, and some
synths. The fate of the rest of the band has been decided - James will
cavort about the studio amusing me with his hilarious anecdotes, while
D'Arcy makes the sandwiches and tea. Still, I must find a new drummer and
keyboardist to convince the punters that I am not a solo artist...

Tuesday.

My drummer auditions began in earnest. When I woke up this morning there was
a queue of earnest teenybopper beatmeisters winding its way down the street.
At the front was Dave Grohl. His happy-go-lucky nature deeply offended me.
As did his diatribe about me being "the next Kurt Cobain". Kurt Cobain has
nothing on me - I can play more than four chords and know how to use a razor
and shaving foam. I dispatched Grohl with a swift swing of my Epiphone
before he could launch into "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and subsequently
demolish the forty-eight tom and cymbal drum kit I had so gratuitously
commissioned for Jimmy. Speaking of Jimmy, he had the gall to show up around
midday, with a bogus English accent claiming to be Ringo Starr. You don't
fool me Jimmy - Ringo never had a crew-cut that bad...

Wednesday.

Canceled the keyboardist auditions because James rang saying that he heard
from a guy who was going out with this chick whose brother is friends with a
Van Halen roadie that Eddie might want to jam with me today. Naturally,
these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the rock
community. Gibson in hand, I tried to look as nonchalant as possible as I
strolled over to his house, but when I opened the door, some old bat
answered, and before I could get a word in she said "Don't worry dear, I
know what you're going through - I had a sister who had leukaemia..." Then
she handed me $20! The nerve of some people...! "I don't have leukaemia", I
answered crossly, "If you must know the truth,I'm going bald..." So she
handed me another $20 and closed the door. Is it any wonder my lyrics are
ridden with grief and despair...?

Thursday.

Found I had a spare forty dollars in my coat pocket, so I bought a bottle of
Rogaine. Courtney came over claiming her visiting rights over to Lily the
cat. I still can't believe that thing went to court. Think how many songs I
might have written had I not been wasting my time with lawyers, judges and
other similarly uncreative people. Felt a bit moody, so I picked up my
acoustic and four-track and wrote a few songs for my forthcoming boxed-set
"Superfluous Crap I Didn't Put On Mellon Collie" Of course, Mellon Collie's
been out for nearly a year, but no-one will ever know. I am so prolific even
I can't even keep track of how many songs I have. Courtney came into my room
while I was recording a fourteenth reprise of "Tonight, Tonight" and tried
to impress me with the caterwauling she's going to put on her new album. I
pretended to be interested, but the
truth is so obvious. She's only famous because she hangs out with the likes
of me, and Kurt and that Reznor guy. Perhaps he'd like to be my new
keyboardist. But then, I get enough of face-painting and animal sacrifices
from James.

Friday.

A lowly record exec calls my lush, but humble abode to inform me that Pink
Floyd want me to induct them into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. Naturally,
these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the rock
community. I nonchalantly agree, and try to find something suitably tacky to
wear on MTV. I settle on a punch bowl shirt I bought from the discarded
wardrobe of "Hawaii Five-O". James asks if he can come along too, but when I
tell him about a phony Star Trek convention in Madison, Wisconsin, he gets
on his bike before you can say "Take Me Down". Sucker. Fortunately D'arcy is
too busy stirring a metal drum of industrial-strength peroxide to be worried
about anything important. I roll up to the ceremony about sevenish. I shake
hands with the Floyd, but they seem distracted. Dave Gilmour keeps saying
"Where's Billy Crystal...?" over and over
again. I stand up and rant on about how much Pink Floyd have influenced me -
I was tempted to call Mellon Collie "The Fence", but Flood said it might be
a bit too obvious. Me and Dave play "Wish You Were Here", but I get carried
away and launch into a wildcat solo. I finally stop when I realize the
induction ceremony has been over for three hours.


Saturday.

James phones from Madison, Wisconsin to inform me that Jimmy Chamberlin has
started up a Smashing Pumpkins tribute band with the guy from Radiohead on
vocals. My life is a never-ending nightmare. I write a song about it, then
spend hours trying to come up with an irrelevant title. Some woman comes in
while I am contemplating the mysteries of life, death and overdubbing and
interrupts me by noisily vacuuming the carpet. "Who the hell are you ?" I
demand angrily, "and what are you doing in my room...?" "It's me, Billy -
your wife..." she replied. Oh yeah - I forgot about that. Well, you get busy
playing over 200 shows in one year. I decide to go round to Mom and Pop's
and sing "Disarm" to them to make them feel guilty for my intolerable
childhood. But they give me pot roast, so I just shut up and eat.

The Second Week

Sunday.

Woke up. Is there any point anymore...? The world is a vampire, sent to
drain. Speaking of vampires, some hack on the internet seems to think
I am one. I should hang on to this, it could be a good marketing hook
for my next quadruple album. I go to the bathroom and sharpen my fangs.
Stuck for something to do, so I went round to James' apartment and
repossessed all the guitarist awards that I really deserved. The
wretched fool is still stuck in Madison, Wisconsin. I checked his letter box
and found a copy of "Who's Who in Rock 'n' Roll '96" had just arrived.
Imagine my outrage when I saw that I had been given a measly two inches
of text! Michael Jackson got a double page fold-out, and he's not even made
of human tissue! Anyway, apparently I have a wife called Christine. You
learn something new every day...

Monday.

Went to the Stop 'n' Go to do a bit of shopping. Who should I see pausing
wantonly over the Barbecue Beef but that foul temptress Kim Deal. I
decided to make a pre-emptive attack, and hurtled my trundler toward her
protruding posterior, hoping to catch her off guard. Unfortunately, she
moved at exactly the wrong moment, and I was bounced off the meat fridge
and thrown into a pile of mayonnaise. How ironic. Kim Deal's ear-grating
cackles only added to my misfortune. I decided there and then to pen a
song about her -

Kim Deal's a filthy evil old cow,
her teeth are all yellow, she smells like a sow.
Her band's called "The Breeders" but that's such a lie,
I doubt that woman could breed if she tried.

Yep - still got it in the lyrics department. I stagger home to recuperate
and do some more work on the new album.

Tuesday.

I rush off to the studio to start recording the new album. However, I am
only in the middle of recording the four hundred and twelfth guitar track
on my next great rocker, tentatively titled - "Another Pretentious Self-
Indulgent Ramble About Being An Angst Filled Twentysomething Year Old", when

I find that all the chrome on the tape has been worn to nothing! Don't the
people who make these things understand the requirements of modern
musicians? I hadn't even started with the bass and drums yet. I vaguely
consider getting D'Arcy in, but realize that in the time it would take me
to find her phone number, I could do her part ten times over. And the time
it takes her...well...I do want this thing out before the turn of the
millennium. I still need a drummer though - I check the studio next door
and find Chad Smith from the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the couch with two
naked girls and a spatula. I invite him to audition, and am impressed with
his vigorous style, but have to turn him down when he says that he will
"Love me like I've never been loved before..." One year on the road with
the Peppers was plenty enough for me.

Wednesday.

A journalist from Rolling Stone turns up to do an interview. Naturally,
these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the
rock community. I conduct the interview with an air of nonchalance. She
asks - "Is it true that you're an egotistical control freak...?"
"Of course not", I reply jovially, "that's a common misconception of me,
one I'm trying to dispel."
"What about that your band is a third-rate Sonic Youth rip-off, and that
Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness is a load of belly-aching tripe...?"
"Get the fuck out of my studio!" I screamed. "Mellon Collie is the most
moving composition to come out of this century, and my songwriting makes
John Lennon and Bob Dylan look like the burnt out 70s acid casualties they
really are!"
That fixed her. James turned up later with a song he had written and said
he wanted to put it on the album. I laughed a bit and said if I was feeling
generous I might bury it in a b-side collection or something. The Artist
Formerly Known As Prince turned up and offered to play keyboards. I told
him the band already had a token female member. I am such a witty fellow
really.

Thursday.

Had a leaf through Mojo magazine and found James ranked as the 87th best
guitarist of all-time in a readers' poll. I flipped through the pages
expecting to see myself a little higher on the chart, next to Johnny Winter,
for example, but to my horror - my name was nowhere to be found! Don't the
people realize that *I* and I alone am the guitar virtuoso of the Smashing
Pumpkins...? Why I am routinely ignored...? I decide to stalk through the
streets of Chicago undisguised and be mobbed by hordes of adoring fans
to boost my sagging ego. However, the adoring fans are nowhere to be seen.
I realize that school doesn't come out for another three hours, so I have
wasted my time. Some idiot comes up to me in the Vic Theater and says
"Can I have your autograph - you were great in 'Natural Born Killers'". I
kick him angrily. Perhaps being called "The Grand High Pumpkin" turns off
the more mature audience. Despite all my fame, my band still has a silly
name...

Friday.

Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam turns up, and we pop down to a local bar and
have a bit of a chat about what it's like being a angst-driven rock idol
and spokesperson for the X generation. However, it ends up being a bit
of a one-sided conversation - I can hardly understand that man through his
slurrings and mumblings, and his greasy unkempt hair and cigarette-ash
covered corduroy jacket make me feel slightly nauseous. I hold out for a
while in the hope that the paparazzi might see us together and give me a
bit of free publicity, but unfortunately I hope in vain. I leave Vedder
and go off to shop for some more guitars - during the Mellon Collie tour
I realised that at one point I used the same guitar for three songs in a
row, something which has obviously damaged my street cred. I ask for
something with lots of pickups and knobs, explaining that I am Billy Corgan,
of the Smashing Pumpkins.
"I've seen your Bullet With Butterfly Wings video," the store-owner said,
"isn't that James Iha just the most incredible guitarist..."
I walked out before I heard the rest. Eddie Vedder was still in the bar,
swigging at a wine bottle and talking to an empty stool about the death
of Kurt Cobain. What a depressing person...

Saturday

Decide to do a spontaneous concert, and so I quickly ring round the others
and get some insignificant people to play drums and keyboards. I force them
all to spend the whole day rehearsing, under the careful scrutiny of a
cardboard cut-out of myself. In the meantime, I go out shopping for drab
black clothing. I almost buy a Zero t-shirt, but have serious second
thoughts
when I notice that every second kid in the mall has one. Bunch of wannabe
losers. In a fit of madcap originality, I buy an orange t-shirt and scrawl
"Jellybelly" across it in big red letters. I have second thoughts about
that too, when I realize how much weight I have put on since the tour
ended. In the end I decide to use one of the shirts I bought from the
discarded wardrobe of "The Dukes of Hazard".
Return to the studio to find the cardboard cut-out of me has been beheaded
and endowed with extremely unflattering genitalia. Everyone smiled and
looked innocent, but when I find out who committed this heinous act, they'll
be looking for another creative visionary to sponge off. Of course, the
show rawked as per usual. The two people still left awake after the four
and a half hour Silverfuck jam seemed very pleased. They were even more
pleased when I unchained them and said that they were forgiven for giving
me such a rotten upbringing. I love Mom and Pop really...

The Third Week

Sunday.

Woke up. Felt slightly chirpy, until I realised that I am Billy Corgan,
tormented 70s child and alterna-rock superstar. I sniffed fly-spray
through my nose and watched Oprah until I was back to my usual self.
D'arcy called in a fit of pre-menstrual rage to inform me that she is
leaving the band to 'live a quiet life and be with her family'. She's
been talking to the fucking therapist woman again, I bet. I matter-of
factly enquired how she intends to pay off her Estee Lauder bill without
any touring income. She capitulated and hung up. I don't know why I
bothered - I could have gotten the chick from Veruca Salt.

Monday.

Perry Farrell phoned and asked me to do Lollapalooza again. "Are you
fucking kidding me...?", I asked him - "I could do my own Lollapalooza
and burn you into the ground! I am the pop-rock king!"
He hung up. That got me thinking - I could call my event Billipalooza.
I'd invite all the bands that I'm friends with...ermmmm...that'd be...
Well, I wouldn't really need any other bands, come to think of it. The
Pumpkins could play nine and a half hours without raising a bead of sweat.
Only I couldn't stand the mosh-pit wet dream. The crowd could be seated in
a stylish marquee and be served coffee to keep them awake during the longer
intrumentals. James could do a juggling act, and if I could just convince
D'arcy to remove a few items of clothing...

The doorbell rang and it was Jimmy.
"Please take me back!", he begged pathetically, "I invested my last few
dollars in a shady biotechnical company and now I've lost everything. I
don't have enough to cover my bail payments."
I fobbed him off with a bottle of Seagers and a plastic toy and told him
that there was a roomy homeless shelter a few blocks down the street.

Tuesday.

I have come up with a slight extension of my Billipalooza plan. I shall
hold a great festival to mark my birthday, on St. Patrick's Day. This is
only fitting, because I am undoubtedly the best Irish songwriter since
Van Morrisson, and the best Irish band since U2. There will be fireworks
and laser shows and the President can make a speech in my honour. Of course
I will have to have a few more chart-topping albums first - I immediately
rework the traditonal hymn "How Great I Art" and put it on four-track.
Stirring stuff. I follow it up with "Band of Hope and Glory", and "My
Pumpkin 'Tis of Thee".

The doorbell rang and it was Vig.
"Please take me back!", he begged pathetically, "I invested my last few
dollars trying to promote a Scottish woman singing over a looped sample
of radio static and now I've lost everything. I don't have enough to cover
my next beardstylist appointment."
"Sorry," I replied, "but we already have a producer."
"What about a drummer...?" - he was getting desperate now...
"Since when have you been able to drum...?" I inquired sceptically.
"I did the drumming for Garbage", he answered.
"Your drumming *is* Garbage, Vig..." I slammed the door. A perfect end to
a perfect day...

Wednesday.

The record boys at Virgin completely rubbished my idea of a 17 minute
video of my extended version of "Stumbeline", featuring me feeding the
homeless of Brazil and petting small woodland creatures, to be aired on
MTV.
They want something more "commerically viable". My next album will
definitely revolve around their unending quest to supress my creative
sensibilities.

James stormed round half-naked to inform me that Bugg Superstar had been
"possessed by the devil".
"He's barking and running round the back yard!" he blurted.
I sat him down and tried to explain that this is quite normal behaviour
for a dog.
"Bugg is no dog!", he proclaimed, "he's human, just like you and I. Only
yesterday he was penning the lyrics to my latest song..."
Well, that would explain a lot. I said I would telephone for help, and I
did. I telephoned Evanston Lunatic Asylum and said I would try and slip
some Valium in his Ovaltine.

Thursday.

The doorbell rang and it was Bugg Superstar.
"Where's James...?" he asked. "I was having a relapse of my Tinetz Syndrome

and he ran off screaming..."
I said I hadn't seen him.
Mental Note: Switch brands of fly spray. That one is doing me no good...
Got a little bored and cranky, so I took time out from recording more
masterpieces to take in a film. I saw "The Doors", directed by Oliver
Stone, and came out thoroughly inspired. First of all, I need a
keyboardist. I need a cool nickname, like the Lizard King. D'arcy
suggested Frog-boy or Mr. Wormy, I suggested she might like to change
sanitary pads. Then I need a cool anagram of my name, like Mr. Mojo
Risin'. Sat round at home and came up with "Golly Car Nib". Hmmmm.
Might have to work on that one some more. But other than that, I don't
see why I can't become a nineties' legend. Perhaps if I do a bit more
pelvic work...

Friday.

The doorbell rang and it was Mom and Pop. They tell me they're forming a
band called "The Crushed Corgans" and have written a catalogue of songs
about me abusing them. Thanks a lot guys. It's just my luck that my own
family would betray me when I need them most.
But that's of no consequence. I hear Paul Schaffer from the Late Show has
offered his services as my keyboardist! I am thrilled to bits, not only
because he is a quality musician, unlike the semi-talented cast-offs
I am usually forced to work with, but without him, the Late Show will
crumble into extinction, and the world will be free of the gap-toothed
curse of David Letterman. In a fit of ecstacy, I donned my fabulous silver
pants and headed over to the roller-skating rink to relive my youth of
1979.
Too late I remembered that I never really learnt to roller-skate, because I

spent all my time in my room with my guitar writing tirades against my
parents. I collapsed in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor. A
friendly teenybopper kid offered me a hand up. There was an awestruck
expression on his pasty youthful face -
"I don't believe it's really you!", he exclaimed, "you're my favourite
singer in the world! Yours is the best band! You're a great guitarist and
I love all your songs...!"
I was stunned - recognition at last...
"So, ummmm, any favourites...?" I casually enquired, as I staggered to my
feet.
"Oh, yeah....definitely 'Peaches'". I immediately passed out again.

Saturday.

Awoke with a very sore head. It was already three in the afternoon and
that Christine woman tells me I'm supposed to be at the MTV Video Awards
at five. I can't help wondering how long we've been married. She reckons
that I wrote "Beautiful" for her, but I distinctly remember staring into a
mirror when I did that one...
"Oh, and Billy," she said, "Paul Reiser phoned. He wants to know when you
want him to play keyboards."
Oh my God. What have I done....?

Anyway the awards got off to a bad enough start when the first person I
bumped into was Billy Joe Armstrong from Green Day. He publicly embarrassed
me by demonstrating how he could flick a piece of snot into the air and
catch it in his mouth. Hmph - what can you expect from a guy who writes
entire albums based on three chords and films videos of vomit-inducing
dental surgery...?

I fled toward the VIP lounge only to be confronted by James, dressed in a
Star Trek uniform, accompanied by a fat, moustached grey-haired man, also
dressed in a Star Trek uniform, who insisted on being called "Scotty".
Fortunately the awards started before I was forced to talk to him. I was
sure "Tonight, Tonight" would be a dead cert for Best Video...
"And the winner is..." Drew Barrymore fumbled with the envelope for what
seemed like an eternity...
"Green Day for 'Geek Stink Breath'!!!"
"Are you people out of your minds?!" I screamed, but my voice was lost
amongst the tumultous roar of the crowd...
"And Best Guitarist in a Rock Music Video...James Iha for 'Bullet With
Butterfly Wings'!!!"
"No!!!" I cried - and if I'd had any hair, it would have been scattered
throughout the auditorium by now...

As James made his way up to the podium to crack Spock jokes and deprive me
of my rightly-earned glory, I consoled myself - this day alone should
give me at least another six albums worth of material...

Jokes on people with down syndrome. Is it really that widespread und accepted in some countries, this forum is indicating it is?