Saturday, 29 August 2009

A shout out for a shut up

My pet hate this week.
Lets talk music. That strangely hostile subject which results in agro between friends and, if you're in Norway, death.
I am tremendously judgemental about music. I think everyone has every right to be... within reason. Personally, I hate with a burning passion the faceless, pathetic whiney nobodies infecting the popular music scene with their repetitive, repugnant crap.
The standard seems to be:
  1. No more than THREE notes may be sung in any one song. Penalty is death.
  2. Your backing track must be one riff which plays continuously for five minutes.
  3. You can't sing normally. You have to either have a piercing, nasal cacophony of vocal range; or else a ridiculously forced ethnic accent (this includes all you try hard cockney Indie get-ups).
  4. Despite all the above, the drooling, zombie minded public will fall at your feet like dominoes and practically fornicate the ground you walk on.
La Roux, for example, sounds like someone strangling a cat that's had its lungs inflated with helium. I would rather take a cheese grater to my own face than listen to this particular catastrophe of sound. Rap is another no no. That some chavvy, goggle wearing social retard gets paid more money than is owned by Switzerland to speak into a microphone about how much he's getting laid makes me want to stab pencils in my ears. What is the attraction here? How many 'songs' about bitches, hoes, guns, and asses can you physically tolerate before you start evolving backwards into a big, insecure sperm? Why the hell would you pay your own money to these bastards, to have them do nothing more than speak in time with some god-awful computerised thumping noises?

Clearly then, these particular brands of sonic-effluence appeal to a very special kind of moron, hitherto referred to as "The Public". Cynical? I certainly bloody hope so. An industry which prizes itself on moaning like a hungry 2 year old whenever somebody turns on Limewire deserves every single verbal smack in the mouth it can get. People who rise up from society's asshole and perpetuate their talentless, mindless drawling to a salivating fanbase are just as much a parasite and a waste of organs as so called 'psychics', 'mediums' and homeopathists who similarly make money out of people's utter, unending stupidity.

All this being said, this is not the point of this entry.

What I want to say, is that despite the above, I don't give two ounces of dirt what sort of music you're in to.
I don't care.
At all.
Go ahead, listen to this rubbish.
Don't you dare inflict it on me.

This, is where I'm going: I am sick to the nipples, of having to justify to other people, my particular tastes in music. I cannot stand the apparent stigma associated with certain bands that I like. Yeh, some people might get just as angry about Fall Out Boy as I have about La Roux, but that's something for you to moan about in your spare time when I'm not within earshot. Dear anyman, why does it bother you in the slightest to learn that I like FoB? Why is this suddenly a cause for you to disapprovingly shake your head as if you've found out I occasionally partake in bestiality? It's just a goddamn band. I don't tie you to a chair and force you to listen to my iTunes library- so don't hold it against me.
You know what? I do like Fall out Boy. A lot. I also like Simple Plan (despite their inherent Emo properties) and hey, what about the odd Emo song now and then? It's not like I slit my wrists to it and bloody up your lovely clean floors. I like most Punk groups (fine- not much problem in society's eyes of liking say, Green Day or The Offspring) but now and then I get the strange urge to listen to Daniel Bloody Powter- and you can't do ANYTHING about it. So stop trying.
I have a playlist with Mika songs in it.
I see nothing wrong with Abba.
Or the Lighthouse Family.
Or Panic! At the Disco.
Any of this bothering you yet? If it is, I seriously suggest you grab the nearest blunt object and propel your skull into it with whatever strength you have. You deserve the injury if my life concerns you that much.
Grow up.
Get a life.

And if you want to moan, keep it on the internet and away from my face.


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