An Unsolicited Review of Mishka Shubaly’s Your Stupid Dreams

This is music for the misfits, for the ne’er-do-wells, for the testosterone-poisoned youths of Generation-X, the aging spawn of the baby-boomers, who are hurtling towards death in slow motion, curled up in a fetal position, tumbling feet-over-head in a dizzying somersault, inducing nausea and dread in all that witness the grim plight of the past-prime once-macho man, forcing our wincing gaze upon a man dancing like no one is watching, which, I have been told, is something no one should have to ever see; the sorrowful decline of a mediocre generation.

And the voice, oh the voice! It is the guttural sounds of a sloppy-drunk hobo crooning into Snipback on a smoldering Galaxy Note 7 in a filthy Sunoco restroom located somewhere off the Hoboken exit of the Jersey Turnpike.

Next time you are in Hoboken, search out the Sunoco station, gingerly enter the restroom — watch your feet! There is more filth there than the naked eye can see. Pull out your black-light. No, No! — On second thought, put the light away. Stand there and picture Mishka sitting there, perched on the edge of the toilet, guitar slung around his neck, the strap slowly choking him from behind, sitting there like a fist-fought monkey that was beaten and snatched from a game reserve in Hong Kong , the weight of the dreary music slung heavy upon Mishka’s back, taking him down.

But Mishka croons on, relentless, determined, inspired by a combination of genius and rebel-without-a-cause joie-de-vivre, singing a song he has sung over a thousand times, to tens of thousands of drunks and crack-heads, inspiring a few, via the apprehension of this terrifying cautionary tale, into sobriety, and the rest to suicide, either by a pistol to the temple, or by the slow steady drip-drip-drip of the Chinese Water Torture that is alcoholism, a relentless tsunami of organic solvent applied the the liver and the brain, over and over, until both are dissolved into mush, then hardened and atrophied into a walnut.

Take out your cell-phone. Take a pic. Post it to Instagram. Now THAT is storytelling!

Three-and-a-half Stars — ***1/2



Disclaimer: Mishka Shubaly knows I love him (much to his chagrin) so I can post this and he will know that I intend nothing but love and adoration.

Besides, look up the lyrics or listen to the song for yourself—in comparison to the haunting spectre of the beast that Mishka summons with his words, music, and singing, this review is innocent, childlike, and naive. And, once again,  for the record, I do indeed love Mishka. Like a brother, like a prodigal son, and like a alcoholic father whose attention and approval I continue to seek, as I dance like a monkey on a leash, wearing a fez, grinding frantically on my organ, in desperate want of a smile, nod, or attaboy.