Bart Bull is an American writer, reporter, author, columnist, and critic.
Born in Seattle, Washington, Bull grew up in Phoenix, Arizona. He dropped out of high school to write a novel, and then returned briefly, leaving again without graduating.
Bull was the editor of Sounds, a free monthly Phoenix-based music newspaper, in the mid-1970s, West Coast Editor of Spin from 1985 to 1988, West Coast editor of Vogue, West Coast editor and a founder of Details. He co-founded Browbeat, first American xerox-punk fanzine, with David Wiley in early summer 1977. He managed The Consumers (1977), an obscure but increasingly acclaimed early American punk band from Phoenix, Arizona. He has written for publications including the Washington Post, Arizona Republic, New York Times, Harper's Bazaar, The Village Voice, The Face, and GQ.
From the earliest days of his work, Bull chronicled subcultures, with pioneering reporting on skateboarding, cockfighting, lowriders, punk, cowboy and rodeo culture, hiphop, heavy metal and others. His reporting on what he called "mall culture," led to writing about architecture, urban life and design in North America, Europe and Australia, often including a critique of modern practices, urban development, and monoculture. One of the earliest writers on punk and hiphop, throughout his reporting career, he has covered issues that would typically be considered "metro desk" stories, while presenting them in a manner more typical of magazine feature writing. His crime reporting has explored bank robbery, drug-dealing, murders, rape, and patricide.
She put him out like the burnin' end of a midnight cigarette
She broke his heart, he spent his whole life tryin' to forget
We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time
But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind
Until' the night
He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger
And finally drank away her memory
Life is short but this time it was bigger
Than the strength he had to get up off his knees
We found him with his face down in the pillow
With a note that said, "I'll love her till I die"
And when we buried him beneath the willow
The Angels sang a whiskey lullaby
La la la la la la la, la la la la la la laa
La la la la la la la, la la la la la la laa
The rumors flew but nobody knew how much she blamed herself
For years and years, she tried to hide the whiskey on her breath
She finally drank her pain away a little at a time
But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind
Until' the night
She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger
And finally drank away his memory
Life is short but this time it was bigger
Than the strength she had to get up off her knees
We found her with her face down in the pillow
Clinging to his picture for dear life
We laid her next to him beneath the willow
While the Angels sang a whiskey lullaby
La la la la la la la, la la la la la la laa
La la la la la la la, la la la la la la laa
La la la la la la la, la la la la la la laa
La la la la la la la, la la la la la la laa