Monday, September 16, 2013
THE BIG O.T.
Modern pop music is nothing more than an ad jingle with tits. Designed for nothing more than to be a vehicle around which 5FM can stuff in as many corporate advertisements as possible. Integrity be damned. Melody, harmony and an intelligent eloquence, on top of stirring chord progressions, are all but dead. Now it's about how you can portray yourself as stereotypically or as absurdly as possible while trying not to reveal that your "music" is nothing more than a collection of primal, sampled beats. Congratulations, you have successfully taken everything ever done to refine one of the greatest art forms on earth, by everyone from Bach to Zappa, and brought it full circle back to the stone age when troglodytes banging on rocks was considered worthy of attention. Considering the outcome of it all is similar, I'd say that's a fair comment, wouldn't you say? Yes, I'm talking to you, dragging your "bitch" back to your "crib"...
The thing that confounds me, though, is that as much as the vast majority of people on the planet like to think of themselves as "above average" consumers of modern culture, this shit is still allowed to dictate trends. Everyone is all like "Oh, this is shit!" Then to whom are the programme directors, record companies and the like pandering? Or are they merely banking on our spineless society and hoping McDonalds will keep paying their exorbitant ad subs? Talk about apathetic subjugation...
So... has anyone heard about the Twitter-splosion following the crowning of a new Miss 'Murica? She is apparently of Native American extraction and is clearly too un-white to be declared the most beautiful woman in the country. If I were these people, I'd refer myself back to the lovely young ladies who have already gone some distance to proving how clever white girls in pageants can be...
How can a nation be so arrogantly arse-headed? My views on 'Murica are not only well documented, but shared by just about anyone on the planet that isn't a dungaree sportin' cousin fucker. It's like the Afrikaner who refuses to accept that apartheid is a thing of the past and was perhaps a bit of a kak idea. The kind of person who refuses to integrate into our wonderfully diverse cultural stew, preferring to remain indoctrinated in a culture based solely on crocheted condoms and handshakes designed to turn your bones to powder.
Anyway, enough of this negativity. Unless of course, you'd enjoy reading my considered opinion on everyone's favourite poodlerockers, Nickelback. You don't? I thought not. That's one drum that's been banged with far too much monotony. The guy can't help the way he looks. Well, he can, but maybe he has problems. Don't judge. Lest ye be judged yourself. Or unless you agree with me that their particular brand of smug schmaltz-rock can fuck off. Now instead of paying what is no doubt a Nigerian Prince's ransom to bring merely another band who has long since reached its sell-by date (and should never have been allowed to poison us with their putrid banality in the first place), Gary Cool gone and done a thing. I don't know the bloke. My first impression of anyone involved directly with that other smarmy motherfucker's blog/radio station/general wankery, is not a favourable one. But he seems like a genuinely legit cat. And he is attempting to have a dream of mine come to life. I want The Boss to sing "Born In The RSA" live. Right here! In MY country!
Although he may be too white, eh Julius? Perhaps extradition to the US of A would be appropriate punishment for your next transgression... If only US of A wasn't so difficult to spell. You'd fit right in. They have rampant morbid obesity, they're dumber than rocks, and they celebrate brash, thoughtless, dangerous rhetoric. You'll never beat Comrade Zuma, but you might just have a shot at the White House. Now, toddle off.
And finally... On to that happy news I was trying to get to. United won. Chelsea lost. And Shitty dropped 2 points. Life is once again on an even keel.
NGDG: It's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma... No it's Churchill's cigar and scotch-torched tastebuds trying to make sense of turduken.
Spread The Love. This Ain't Amistad.