So, it seems a few people were calling my last “piece”, as I like to sound like I did something of significance rather than just babble on for over a thousand words about how much I don’t like something, “witty, hilarious baiting of the music industry”. However, MOST were calling it the “Deluded rantings of a twelve year old crack-addicted victim of gang rape.” Of course, as my last bit of writing demonstrated, you can’t trust a fucking thing the masses will have you believe, so fuck them.
There are many things that offend me about the music industry. The lack of decent talents, the fact that small labels cannot compete with the larger, even with the world wide web (which, as we all know, is 90% pornography, 9% torrents and 1% of actual useful information). I could rant on about these issues for quite some time. But bollocks to that, I have more bitter and twisted words to say than your mum has had clients back to hers for what she probably told you was “a friendly chat ”. She was lying, by the way, in case you didn’t already get the implication that your mother was indeed a hooker, who gave it up for 12 years after you were born due to a fumble in a back alley and a broken condom, because you may very well be one of the emo fucktards that I wrote about previously. There is more than enough anger and aggression to go around, so I’ll just start with something small and insignificant, much like your penis and/or breasts (because, as we know, the world isn’t image obsessed ENOUGH yet, is it? No, much better that you have just another insecurity to write poetry and cut yourself over)
Alright, I’ll be honest, the issue is not small, I just felt the need to insult you. In fact, this image is rather large. I’m fairly certain that you’ll be aware of it, even those that didn’t have a clue about that “scene” malarkey.
Bands who care. And I can assure you, I’d be writing care with those stupid little bunny ears everybody feels the need to make when they’re being sarcastic, if only there was a way of portraying those in this bloody works document. No, I don’t mean quotation marks, you silly little shitbag, I’m fully aware of their existence, they just don’t actually symbolize what I mean, they are, shocking enough, QUOTATION marks. As in, for quotes.
Anyway, that seems to have gone off the point somewhat, something I can assure will happen on several occasions during this particular rant, or anything else I write about, seeing as I don’t really have enough to say about one specific subject, so I get quite tangential so that you don’t actually notice that I’ve said bugger all. I think this previous statement proves my point perfectly, because I’m at the end of the fifth paragraph and still yet to write anything about the entire point of this.So, bands who “care” - Yes, I’m using them for the sake of the fools who can’t actually work out that I’m being sarcastic, despite the fact I told them 2 FUCKING PARAGRAPHS AGO! - I have issue with these people.
But why, you ask? “Why Jack?! You seemed like such an intellectual in your previous writings, and now you say something as stupid as this?!”. Yes, yes I do. Because these bands don’t care beyond their own publicity. See, I can see the confused look upon your faces already, so allow me to explain, using what would probably be the most prominent example. U2. Or, more specifically, Bono.
“Oh, but what about LiveAid?” What about LiveAid? Or Live8? Or LiveEarth? Or LiveGiveMeABigSackOfCash? I know they didn’t make any money directly from that event. Which is good, fantastic, super smashing great, in fact. People who needed that money or the publicity got it, and that I have absolutely no problem with. However, and I know some of you are wondering what my next point is going to be, so I shan’t delay you with any more filler sentences such as this one, what do you think they got out of it? Masses of publicity? A fuckload of record sales off the back of this event? And, I ask you, did ANY of those extra record profits go to the charity that in actual fact HELPED U2 and all the other artists to make more filthy piles of cash for them to roll around in? I think not. I may be mistaken, but I don’t think I am.
One thing I am sure of, however, is the fact that U2 moved their record label to Switzerland. What do you think that was for? The Swiss running out of money, and that U2 are supporting another impoverished nation? If you think that, then you probably don’t even understand what the word impoverished means, so I’d suggest you stop reading now, because, it seems, I may have some slightly controversial opinions coming forward now.
I think that they may gave done it simply for the money. Now, I know that the fans of U2 currently are unable to express their disgust at this statement, but that’s simply because they’re far too busy making out with Bono’s genitalia, which they are currently trying to dislodge from between their teeth. So, allow me to speak for them, yes?
Well, I could try to, except for the fact I’d need to remove two ribs, so that I could practice the art of auto-fellatio to teabag myself, to even BEGIN to talk as much bollocks as a brainwashed U2 fan can manage. That band currently have enough money to throw away thousands of pounds on suing someone, over a hat.
Yes, a hat. And, of course, with that sum of money, you’d expect it to be some sort of jewel encrusted golden crown. Of course, you’d also be wrong. It’s just some ordinary Stetson. Similar to the ones you’ll see Bono sporting every moment of his charitable existence. Well, in the moments between him walking from one of his luxurious mansions, of which he probably has more than the entire third world has houses in total, to his limousine (Helping stop world pollution too, eh Bono?), you’ll see him wearing these same bloody hats.
I digress. U2 are a bunch of hypocritical dickweasels who actually believe their own bloody hype. And while I’m on the matter, Coldplay can fucking do one as well. I’ve ranted on too long, so I shall just say this. What the fuck is wrong with you, you new age hippy dickhole? Naming your child Apple? Do you hate them even before they’re old enough to form a personality which, I might add, they clearly won’t be getting from their father, who is devoid of anything even resembling an interesting feature, right down to the constant gormless look on his face. Apparently he writes amazing songs, which I would class as an interesting aspect of his otherwise needless existence, except that I’ve yet to hear the bloody things. All I’ve heard are the atrocious albums they continue to release despite complaints from the UN of noise pollution.
I’ve digressed again. Shortly, Apple’s good old dad (Yeah, right, as if Gwyneth wasn’t working her way around Hollywood behind his back) has doomed the poor girl to a life of mockery. And not just because of the stupid fucking name (See, even I’m doing it), but down to the fact that her parents are Chris fucking Martin and Gwyneth fucking Paltrow.
I rest my case. Goodnight.
Friday 30 November 2007
Thursday 22 November 2007
This ain't a scene...
One of my friends, who shall remain nameless, as it makes it easier for me to lie through my teeth about who it is when being confronted by them, decided that if I were to write reviews of music it would be quite amusing. However, this clearly makes her an idiot as well as the STD ridden harlot that I previously assumed of her, as my taste of music could be nicely described as "bohemian" and not so nicely described as "fucking retarded," considering as I do Jeff Wayne’s musical version of The War of the Worlds to be the best album ever written.
I think this new range of emo/metal crossover, which neither side of the battle wishes to admit has anything to do with the other, sounds pretty much like a group of one armed Parkinson’s sufferers, consisting as it does almost exclusively of drop-D palm muted power chords chugging along with some semblance of melody, and I use the preceding term loosely, draped across the top in the hope that no one notices that this does, in fact, require very little talent, should you be the previously mentioned, or merely have lost a fight with a chainsaw and happen to be quite chilly whilst writing these songs.
Whilst I'm on the subject, let's talk about the "scene", shall we? Or rather, we don't need to, as you can look across myspace or whatever social networking site happens to be popular this week and see the results of this a lot easier. Effectively, the majority of music fans have become what I like to call "cunts". And the music is following this trend. I'm fairly certain these bands are actually writing the songs to fit in with the outfit they're wearing that week and in fact will eventually just turn into songs about how they were in love with their skinny jeans until they were caught cheating on them with a pair of tracksuit bottoms or some such other crap that no one could really give two shits about if it wasn't for the fact that for some reason this has become the trend, so they don't wish to feel socially outcast.
Here's an idea. Get a personality. It just takes one of you. Fuck it, shall we try it? Think back, when was the last time you enjoyed music? No, I don't mean when you were five years old and when you were enjoying Steps (Or *insert generic 80's band name here* if you happen to be Julia), but the last time you genuinely walked away from music feeling something. Yes, alright, fair enough, this "emo" is supposedly emotive music, but lets face it, the only emotion it makes me feel is my stomach acid rising and yet I'm fairly sure that's not even a feeling, merely a standard bodily reaction to having more shite forced down your throat.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, personality! The last band you enjoyed? Come on, don’t be shy! It can be anyone, even the aforementioned Steps if need be, because quite frankly all this Fall At The Disco or Panic Out Boy or whatever they’re calling themselves these days are exactly the same but at least Steps had the outright decency to admit they were doing it. Music is there to be enjoyed. Yes, it’s there to draw out emotion, but there are other emotions that aren’t “whiney little shitbag.” Deal with it. Oh, poor you, your girlfriend left you. So did mine, but I didn’t write a bloody song about it in the vain attempt to get some jailbait to come to my show and fellate me whilst I recite poetry about how fucking marvellous I look in my new H&M t-shirt, did I? Maybe if I did I would have other things to do in my time than rant about all the things I hate about the music scene today.
“Oh but Jack,” I hear you begin to cry already, “you only hate these bands because they’re famous now.” Wrong again, you smartarsed cockbadgers. I’ve not been a fan of Fall Out Boy since their first UK tour where I had the misfortune of going to see them, thanks to a free ticket and a mate who was in need of company. Having not heard of them, I naively thought that it wouldn’t be too bad. I stupidly thought that my mate had generally quite a good taste in music. Had I known then what I know now about F.O.B. (Which they shall be referred to at this point because am I fuck writing out the name again, despite this sentence explaining being far longer than the name itself, I’m not giving the snivelly little jam rags the satisfaction), I would not have gone to the gig and my friend would still be alive and not buried under my patio. Which, I feel, would have been better for all involved.
What makes me laugh more than anything is the passion with which these people will jump to defend what they call art and I call a big pile of gash. “Listen to the lyrical content!” “It’s so deep and meaningful!” “This music makes me want to masturbate with razorblades it’s so moving!” Here’s my response to these arguments. Go fuck yourselves, you unimaginative fuckholes. The lyrical content? And which lyrical content would that be? Oh, I do apologise, that has changed my argument completely! At least, it would, if it wasn’t for the fact that that argument is a bigger pile of toss than Michael Jackson being bundled by 8 year olds. (Yes, I’m aware that Michael Jackson was found innocent on all accounts, but quite frankly if you believe that you can go hang yourselves from the same fucking tree those emo fuckwits will be dangling from shortly). There is no lyrical content. At least, as far as I can tell. The only line that I ever considered clever from this so called musical genre is the brilliant line from F.O.B.’s “Sugar We’re Going Down” which is, I quote, “I’m just a notch in a bedpost, but you’re just a line in a song.” Now, the reason I like this lyric is simply for the reason that either women have starting notching bedposts in the same manner that us men supposedly do (Which is another subject which I won’t even get fucking STARTED on right now), or that our good friends in F.O.B. (that explanatory sentence is really starting to pay off now) do indeed smoke pole than the population of Brighton.
And, while I’m on the subject of F.O.B, the next person to call them Emo shall be administered a barbed wire enema. They are not emo, nor never will be. They are merely pop-punk. Admittedly, pop-punk without the sense of humour and with its head so far up its own arse that it’s currently wearing its sphincter as a scarf, but pop-punk nonetheless. Not that I really care for pigeon holing music that much, but if you’re going to do it, do it fucking correctly. It’s not that difficult! Even I can manage it and I’m barely capable of anything beyond basic motor skills and ranting endlessly on about music for a purpose none other than I bloody well feel like it!
So, in summary. Fuck you. Fuck you and your self righteous scene, because quite frankly you’re all just a bunch of sheep who need to realize that you are indeed being taken for a ride by the record industries in the same way that Diana was taken for a ride through an underpass in Paris. Either way, it’s going to end messily
I think this new range of emo/metal crossover, which neither side of the battle wishes to admit has anything to do with the other, sounds pretty much like a group of one armed Parkinson’s sufferers, consisting as it does almost exclusively of drop-D palm muted power chords chugging along with some semblance of melody, and I use the preceding term loosely, draped across the top in the hope that no one notices that this does, in fact, require very little talent, should you be the previously mentioned, or merely have lost a fight with a chainsaw and happen to be quite chilly whilst writing these songs.
Whilst I'm on the subject, let's talk about the "scene", shall we? Or rather, we don't need to, as you can look across myspace or whatever social networking site happens to be popular this week and see the results of this a lot easier. Effectively, the majority of music fans have become what I like to call "cunts". And the music is following this trend. I'm fairly certain these bands are actually writing the songs to fit in with the outfit they're wearing that week and in fact will eventually just turn into songs about how they were in love with their skinny jeans until they were caught cheating on them with a pair of tracksuit bottoms or some such other crap that no one could really give two shits about if it wasn't for the fact that for some reason this has become the trend, so they don't wish to feel socially outcast.
Here's an idea. Get a personality. It just takes one of you. Fuck it, shall we try it? Think back, when was the last time you enjoyed music? No, I don't mean when you were five years old and when you were enjoying Steps (Or *insert generic 80's band name here* if you happen to be Julia), but the last time you genuinely walked away from music feeling something. Yes, alright, fair enough, this "emo" is supposedly emotive music, but lets face it, the only emotion it makes me feel is my stomach acid rising and yet I'm fairly sure that's not even a feeling, merely a standard bodily reaction to having more shite forced down your throat.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, personality! The last band you enjoyed? Come on, don’t be shy! It can be anyone, even the aforementioned Steps if need be, because quite frankly all this Fall At The Disco or Panic Out Boy or whatever they’re calling themselves these days are exactly the same but at least Steps had the outright decency to admit they were doing it. Music is there to be enjoyed. Yes, it’s there to draw out emotion, but there are other emotions that aren’t “whiney little shitbag.” Deal with it. Oh, poor you, your girlfriend left you. So did mine, but I didn’t write a bloody song about it in the vain attempt to get some jailbait to come to my show and fellate me whilst I recite poetry about how fucking marvellous I look in my new H&M t-shirt, did I? Maybe if I did I would have other things to do in my time than rant about all the things I hate about the music scene today.
“Oh but Jack,” I hear you begin to cry already, “you only hate these bands because they’re famous now.” Wrong again, you smartarsed cockbadgers. I’ve not been a fan of Fall Out Boy since their first UK tour where I had the misfortune of going to see them, thanks to a free ticket and a mate who was in need of company. Having not heard of them, I naively thought that it wouldn’t be too bad. I stupidly thought that my mate had generally quite a good taste in music. Had I known then what I know now about F.O.B. (Which they shall be referred to at this point because am I fuck writing out the name again, despite this sentence explaining being far longer than the name itself, I’m not giving the snivelly little jam rags the satisfaction), I would not have gone to the gig and my friend would still be alive and not buried under my patio. Which, I feel, would have been better for all involved.
What makes me laugh more than anything is the passion with which these people will jump to defend what they call art and I call a big pile of gash. “Listen to the lyrical content!” “It’s so deep and meaningful!” “This music makes me want to masturbate with razorblades it’s so moving!” Here’s my response to these arguments. Go fuck yourselves, you unimaginative fuckholes. The lyrical content? And which lyrical content would that be? Oh, I do apologise, that has changed my argument completely! At least, it would, if it wasn’t for the fact that that argument is a bigger pile of toss than Michael Jackson being bundled by 8 year olds. (Yes, I’m aware that Michael Jackson was found innocent on all accounts, but quite frankly if you believe that you can go hang yourselves from the same fucking tree those emo fuckwits will be dangling from shortly). There is no lyrical content. At least, as far as I can tell. The only line that I ever considered clever from this so called musical genre is the brilliant line from F.O.B.’s “Sugar We’re Going Down” which is, I quote, “I’m just a notch in a bedpost, but you’re just a line in a song.” Now, the reason I like this lyric is simply for the reason that either women have starting notching bedposts in the same manner that us men supposedly do (Which is another subject which I won’t even get fucking STARTED on right now), or that our good friends in F.O.B. (that explanatory sentence is really starting to pay off now) do indeed smoke pole than the population of Brighton.
And, while I’m on the subject of F.O.B, the next person to call them Emo shall be administered a barbed wire enema. They are not emo, nor never will be. They are merely pop-punk. Admittedly, pop-punk without the sense of humour and with its head so far up its own arse that it’s currently wearing its sphincter as a scarf, but pop-punk nonetheless. Not that I really care for pigeon holing music that much, but if you’re going to do it, do it fucking correctly. It’s not that difficult! Even I can manage it and I’m barely capable of anything beyond basic motor skills and ranting endlessly on about music for a purpose none other than I bloody well feel like it!
So, in summary. Fuck you. Fuck you and your self righteous scene, because quite frankly you’re all just a bunch of sheep who need to realize that you are indeed being taken for a ride by the record industries in the same way that Diana was taken for a ride through an underpass in Paris. Either way, it’s going to end messily
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