In democracy there are elections, you can throw the stinkin’ bums out. On the other hand there is the marketplace which rules like a fascist motherfucker and gives you what they think is best for you, what their accountants deem unrisky for future profit margins. And this is why the musical landscape has regressed like the biggest longest fall on the game Chutes and Ladders. Okay I don’t know how the chain reaction started and I don’t even care but what I do know (since this is an area I’ve existed in for years) is that record labels don’t even look for new songwriting talent anymore. They try to find product that tactically resembles their last success story. I fucking hate hate hate the horrific pop music of this dying spiritless artless culture we’re stuck with and yet I see there is no possible redemption because the corporations are in power and they don’t even like music. They’re not human, they’re all named Ledger Book. They will stay entrenched in their decision-making capacity til long after I and you are dead. Music doesn’t matter to Ledger Book and it is forcibly being made to not matter to anyone. There are no risks. The albatross megacunt companies sell generic cereal box dreck and they mostly know how well that dried-up dung will perform before they even ship a thang. They’ve even limited their proactivity to feeding youth from 12-17. Sure it doesn’t help that they’re bad at business too ~ and didn’t get a handle on downloading so now artistkind doesn’t even have much of an incentive driving them to greatness because of the searing impossibility that their art will be worth a dime where it all goes for free.
Face the smelly reality that whatever music used to be has been unsubtly wiped off the face of this earth. And please don’t offer up the overused retarded argument that musical tastes are a reflection of one’s age. Show some spine. Not that all the spine in the world will matter because this is what we’re stuck with, the rotting soulless carcass of musical culture, as the whole enchilada that once might’ve been called the music milieu will be no more relevant than a Whamo Superball from 1965. It’s gone, bury it. And fuck the fucked up human excrement in suits that brought us to this place, I hope you all die simultaneously one minute after the music stops altogether, so they can’t play taps or any comforting hymns at your funerals. The organ player can just sit on her stool and look stupid in the tuneless quiet of the celebration of your demise.
I caught you red moused. You slither around acting like I’m not this ultrapertinent mountain towering majestically in the dead middle of your cyber thoroughfare. You and your charisma-intimidated board buddies want nothing more than to convince your puny, dreary half-selves that I’m not the one, the sun, the only ever fucking human fireworks display in your historical vicinity. It’s so fun to pretend, isn’t it? Well you had me slighly fooled, for my catbird binoculars always try to consider all the possibilities, and wtf, I’m sometimes a little bit bored by meself lately – not often, mind you. like once last Thursday maybe..
Then I checked how many times you’d been clicking on my mayhem and Holy bouncing baby with a bullet, guess who’s the king of the prom, the main untame foot-to-the-floor sensation …………… as usual
I felt gratified as I took a phantom bow to my storied past that had remained unashamed accumulating to the present I’m about to wrap. All that I was is still one crisply rippling sail in the flourish of what I am. I will never lose my way again. If you try to change my course I will engulf you in the presence you stand in awe of. You know how you feel about me and your shattered glass facade is only a roadsign flickering by on my landscape. I don’t need to read you. Where I’m going is for me to culminate, and you to ponder.