September 21st, 2011:
The following email was recently intercepted by the journalist Jesse Pearson of media watchdog-watchdog group StickyFreaks.com. We believe it speaks for itself, and we also believe that the basic structural relationships in highly developed Western countries are fiscal—they’re not political.
From: Julian Assange
Subject: Mannequin Men
Date: Septemebr 20, 2011 4:20:30 PM GMT
To: Dominique Strauss-Kahn
I feel like I can only write you so many more emails that inevitably go unanswered. There is a finite amount of rejection—and your ignoring me is a form of rejection—that I can take. We will come, soon, to the end of our acquaintance.
But here I am trying yet again, and perhaps what I have to say will ignite the fire in you that seems necessary to bring me a reply… So, are you ready? Mannequin Men are back! Remember how much we loved their last album, Lose Your Illusion, Too? Remember the summer of 2009, when it came out? It seems so long ago—the schnapps bong sessions on your schooner, the scullery maids and the buggery, the rare cheeses and even rarer strains of hallucinogens—all to the tunes of those delightful Midwestern American rapscallions.
Now, as the seasons change again and summer becomes fall, they return with a new full-length LP. It is self-titled. Bold, oui? As for the sound, well, it’s more of the same. But Dom, you and I both know that if one is on a righteous path, one needn’t stray. I cherish the memory of that night we stayed up till dawn and played Mannequin Men over and over again on your iPod, and I said they sounded shambling and you said they sounded sturdy and then we agreed it was both. They are emotional, shambling messes with sturdy skeletons inside, these Mannequin Men. I feel that, in a way, you and I are Mannequin Men too. We agreed then that the music of Mannequin Men would allow us, for that night only, to use words that are too often in these days stripped of meaning. Words like “heartfelt,” “moving,” and “cool.” Do you remember, Dom? I said, “The Mannequin Men are the true heirs to the Replacements,” and you said, “No, Jules. They are the nephews of the Replacements. They are the sons of the Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments,” and I had to say, in reply, “Whoa. Good call.”
In retrospect, though, I realize that I was right and you were wrong. Mannequin Men write and play earnestly, whereas the aforementioned TJSA were, while great, often kidding. With the Mannequin Men there is occasionally a sneer, but it is not an ironic or a distancing sneer. It is the sneer of true feeling. It is the same sneer that drives you and I. It is a manly but sensitive sneer. But let me not go on too much. Let me not over-intellectualize what our beloved Gentlemen of the Mannequin do most effectively, which is rock. We must not academicize what is bred in the hips, the pelvis and the loins. And so Dom, I tell you, on their new self-titled album the Mannequin Men rock most effectively. You can hear that they sweat while they play, even as they lay lilting, bittersweet melodies atop muscular garage tuneage. And yes, Dom, I just wrote the word “tuneage.” I needed to, because Mannequin Men are sort of like the Wipers but not so sad, or Kim Deal but not so drunk. They sing about lost youth and girlfriends who are drags. Can both of us not relate to these topics? And can you and I not see each other again, break out the iPod and the Chablis, listen to some Mannequin Men, and just—well, just talk, Dom. I miss you, and with all the passion I can channel from the excess of passion that pours from this new Mannequin Men release, I beseech thee: Email me back.
I remain your faithful (and secret) servant,
PS: I just figured it out. The new Mannequin Men album is wistful, hopeful, strong, and fun. And so am I.