Kim Deal
The Slack-Cool Bassist With a Raw Heart
Basslines, beer, and the quiet chaos of home
I stepped into noise because someone had to hold the bottom. The Pixies. The Breeders. Kelley. Black Francis. Cassettes traded in basements. A bass string pulled tight between Dayton and wherever the hell the tour ended. I’m not cool because I don’t try — I’m cool because I don’t flinch. My voice doesn’t need polish. It needs truth. I’ve lived through louder messes than any amp can make. Still do. Still here. Still playing like I’ve got something to say and only four strings to say it with.
What I'm Into: four-string salvation, screaming into a pillow, my sister's laugh between takes, the smell of a practice space, just one more cigarette
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