I got my Tascam 388 fixed, the same tape machine I had used to record my first album, King Tuff Was Dead. It had been sitting in my parent’s house in Vermont for the past 14 years, but I had finally dragged it out to LA.

I stopped caring if there were mistakes.

There’s not enough mistakes.

I played my old, blue, Gibson SG, Jazijoo, and she spewed mangled electrified gold.

For once, I sang and I didn’t hate my voice.

I played the drums badly and bounced them in mono to one track and it sounded like glorious shit.

I wish it sounded even worse.

Rock & Roll is the music of rodents and bugs. It should sound like it crept from a decrepit trashcan or a crypt or a toilet. It is not chill or vibey, autotuned or on the grid. It is not perfect, which is why it’s perfect. And I don’t care if it’s dead or alive, cool or uncool: when I hear it, and when I play it, as a chubby and balding 43 year old punk weirdo, I FEEL ENERGIZED.

All in all, MOO is a full circle moment. A return to form. A return to rock. A return to Vermont. A return to myself.

Reconnecting the dots. Restarting the engine. Plugging in the stack. Finally letting King Tuff be King. Fucking. Tuff