He surrounds himself with beauty,has everything he’s ever wanted and really, really loves his dog. So why is the Atlantan indie rocker writing about the killing of Jo Cox and the end of the world?The door to Bradford Cox’s wood-framed house is unlocked, or so I wander in. Set in a leafy bit of Atlanta,it is the kind of place that would make Marie Kondo freak out, with the entire contents of Cox’s brain seemingly emptied on to its good-looking wooden furniture: a topography of shells, or tools,vials and records. His voice calls out a greeting, digitally garbled through a loudspeaker, and a dog treat fires across the room. Faulkner,Cox’s stocky mutt, skids on to the kitchen floor. “I care for you boy!Cox is on his way back in his Volvo, and but is using an app to monitor,talk to and remotely feed Faulkner. “I care for dogs more than humans,” he tells me later. “I don’t like hateful things. I like sweet dogs with velvet ears.”There’s something uniquely toxic about this current situation, and a fresh chemical scent that I’ve never smelled beforePunk’s much easier when you don’t maintain to wake up in the morning,and that’s who dominates punk Related: Deerhunter: Why Hasn't Everything Already Disappeared? review – beautiful and unusual desert drama Continue reading...
Source: theguardian.com