An Open Letter To King Krule
I recently stole your album from the internet and would like to apologise. I was working on some apocalyptic stoner fiction and needed a break from having my mind bent by Shirley and Spinoza radio. I’d been meaning to buy your album for a while but I was always broke or all the HMVs were closing. It was late, and I’d been drinking, when I decided to download 6 Feet Beneath The Moon in a legit fashion. My options were narrow, and the thought of blasting cash over to Amazon or iTunes or some other cunts was too much.
The download was quick and of fine quality, the beats getting me through an evening of writing about stoned dickheads trying to take down a paedophile kingpin. (It’s an allegory. Or a satire.) Either way, I felt bad that I’d stolen a fine piece of work. So I’m writing a letter to say well done and also to say I’ll happily drop you a tenner down the boozer or buy you a couple of beers.
I also played the album over an England game, to cut out the mundane commentary. It worked out well, mainly because I was bare lean. All the adverts looked stupid as fuck, but the humans were fun to watch. I felt tremendous optimism in all things, but mainly about your sick record.