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