The kind of guy who was once cool but moves to Los Angeles around age 30 under the auspices of a UCLA graduate program and rebels against his parents, society, and traditional values for the very first time in his life. After his first ever encounter with a woman, Mr. California immerses himself in retrograde sociopolitical ideologies and affects a taste for lame lo-fi music. He consciously begins to speak with an unrealistically heavy California accent and is careful to sprinkle conversations with references to Noam Chomsky and Naomi Klein. Mr. California makes it a point to speak at a higher register than everyone else, which he attempts to mitigate with stylistic usage of the word “fuck.” On the rare occasion that you receive an incoming call from Mr. California, your first inclination is to cast your cell phone into the East River.
That album is so fuckin’ superlative, so trans--fuckin--cendent, really. I can’t wait for Elliot Smith to come through town again. He’s hella relevant, dude.
He died almost eight years ago, Mr. California.
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