Dear Taylor Momsen … I have a bone to pick.


First of all, I just want to say: I have been
waiting for a woman like you all my life.

Second of all, that’s not a romantic line.
What I mean is … Lady? You fucking rock. Hard.

Your ear for melodies is nearly flawless.
Your voice carries like waves in Zeppelin’s ocean

with a metal tone leading to lead poison.
You will not die. Ever. You’re an immortal

bird. A Lioness trapped in a cage. I see
it without seeing you at all. How hard was

your fall, eh? Rough and tumble? Rock bottom, right?
I know the feeling, but it’s something more than

luck that keeps you going and leaves hearts reeling.
You’re good, kid. You’re damned good. Pretty Reckless, eve-

en. Listen, please, for just a moment longer.
Last Sunday Meghan (she’s my second-cousin)

and I traveled over to Mobile to see
the Memphis blues, but they were in Tennessee.

I heard they traveled up Highway 61
watching Arrested Development reruns

on backs of seats in front of them. Point being,
we were listening to your band’s second

album, what’s it called? … I don’t even know, but
it’s good. I can tell you like Paramore. Me

too. Hayley Williams can wail, can’t she? And that
letter she wrote to Kanye? Woo-wee! What a

woman! Feisty. Reminds me of a chick I
knew who moved to North Carolina. Blue, I

once called her, when she got too hyper. Man, she…
Anyway, sorry. I’m not the man for you,

Taylor, but I’d sure like to talk music with
you and your band sometime. I dig your stuff, guys,

all of it. My Medicine is the shit. It’s
got the throat-clearing, smirking in the background,

I don’t give fuck, this is going in the track.
Bradley Nowell did it. So did Jimmy and

Kurt. Listen to Serve the Servants. After his
lead he clears his throat before singing. He did

not give a shit about assholes. All of his
albums were like Bob Dylan’s Self Portrait, right?

A big middle finger in the air for all
to see. Race, creed, sex? Are you cool or are you

an asshole? Hey Taylor, about your lyrics…
If one were so inclined, one could gather a

collective and conduct a symposium
on the content of your meanings, because the

words really are as important as the muse.
Well … maybe. I really hope you write your own

rhymes and I’m not just blowing smoke or beating
a dead horse. I have a feeling you’re sharp as

a tack and full of mettle. A vixen. A
siren. A black heart. A modern Joan Jett dressed

in all white, holding an iron axe, center
stage in the shining limelight, sporting a wild

Billy Idol sneer. It’s all about the what?
That’s right … attitude. You own it, Taylor. Did

you know Dante liked to recite his poems
over a musical beat? Yes, the Dante.

He was a rapper, but he wasn’t the first.
Maybe J-Dub was your third man, but he is

definitely not the Seventh Son. That would
be too crazy, right? I mean, I know he’s good.

Listen to him shred on the E string. All day.
Jack White? He can play guitar with strings and clay.

Anyway, I hope you read this someday. I
just want to say Good Luck. Please don’t break a leg.

You can do anything you want in the world.
I pray that you never forget that, Momsen.

Sincerely and respectfully, Tom Sorrell.


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