Photo by Patrick Jordan.


[ROCK] Passing through the delicate landscape of communal psycho-spiritual transformation with a five man pair of guys like Ween is the same as mounting a thrashing buck during the peak of mating season, and whispering languidly into its ear, “may I have a ride home?” You may eventually find yourself alive and warm, folded into the kindness of your bedding, caressing your mind with a trancelike recollection of the string of countless points which have led you to this very moment, but you will never know whether the decision to saddle up and ride into such vulnerable, frenetic territory has given birth to your best possible reality. 

How would you even mentalize a barometer for indicating the ideal present? Would you paint a scene in which you are in bliss and satiated, forever outside of the reach of pain’s toothpick grabbers, unaware of any harm that may be raining on those situated just outside of the scope of your black umbrella of willful ignorance? Or would it be one in which you no longer exist, where all is warm and buttered in joy for those still turning on earth, clinging to their dreams? 

These questions reproduce like incontinent pugs, spawning a litter without end. The only way to return to the pasture of tranquility is to surrender all intellectualizations, to pour out the ashes of language into the sea of listening, and to embrace the totality of experience with an open heart. From this place you begin to think differently about Ween. The cynical, fear based thought filters are gently cleansed in the mist of deeper insight. It becomes clear that like all particular Things, the power of the somewhat dubious intentions radiating from this pair of enfamed bobbleheads pales in comparison to that of the prism of cosmic parables that their arc signifies.

I hope this is making sense for you so far, dear reader. Truth be told, I tend to get carried away spouting my own feeble interpretations of the teachings of my mentor—the leader of the Buffalo leg of Ween’s fan club—Danuel Baggot. Perhaps before fumbling any further with his ideas we should drink straight from his horselike mouth. He has asked me to publish the following letter, and to issue along with it the special request that if any of Ween’s roadies, crew members, or management discovers this message, to please pass it along to the band on behalf of us all. 

Dear Ween: 
What can be said about music? Our best words spring like poachers upon her fragile ghost, causing the flock to scurry in a million needless directions. The spell is broken, the semantic searchlight beams brightly in our ears, crowding out the delicate nook where she once nested in blissful self-unawareness. 

And likewise, my dear Ween, what can be said about the nature of a rare and destined long standing relationship, such as yours, that isn’t expounded on quite perfectly in the vibrational play of your sound for all to gather and hear? What heinous mouth babbling could add so much as a dollop of foam to the bliss that exudes from your union? And yet, we must express ourselves. We have no choice but to cry out to you at this moment in history, dear Ween, on the dawn of your visit to Buffalo, and draw attention to the glowing tower of love that you undoubtedly have for your fans and for one another; the beacon of light which guided the way for us all through the blackness of the uncertainty of that dark age of 2012-2015. 

Yes, love is a strange thing indeed, is it not, my dear Ween? Particularly that mysterious facet of love, bordering on supernatural faith, which compels—nay, even carries—two or more sovereign individuals to live in service of the shared vision of the unfolding realization of their collective potential, despite the inevitable bruising along the winding of life’s awkward learning curve.

And what better parable to look upon and gather inspiration from than your beautiful reunion? Your songbook and your shows, dear Ween, are the glowing incarnations of a magic that only the universal mystery of committed, loving collaboration yields. And although cynics and the blind will chortle smoke from the tops of rotten soapboxes, claiming that mere financial gain is the fuel driving your bus, those of us with ears to hear are thankful for you, dear and lovely Ween. We recognize your devotion to music and to the unsayable nature of your bond; we appreciate you for sticking together, and for handing to us hundreds of strange animal balloons made of your pure sound.

-Danuel Baggot, July 23, 2018



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