HOME copying is not killing recorded music. Idiots with self inflated senses of talent and self worth are killing it, and they’re doing a mighty job of it.
The sale of guitars needs to be restricted by law. In much the same way your average punter cannot buy handguns, grenades and so on, there needs to be a process whereby individuals wishing to enter the noble world of musicianship should be interviewed and psychologically evaluated before being allowed within shredding distance of this most versatile of instruments.
'These charlatans need to be hung
by the colon from a burning tree'
I say this because I am sick beyond belief of listening to appallingly bad music.
It is everywhere. It may be some LIPA-spawned imbecile banging on about “Yesterday Is The New Tomorrow” or some other cack-handed attempt at profundity; it may be a marijuana-fuddled gobshite screaming his damaged lungs out about trees or “politishins”.
Worst of all it could be the purest form of evil – somebody who, whilst technically gifted, has the artistic and emotional talent of a horse’s bollock but insists on “getting out the guitar” as soon as there are more than three people in a room.
These charlatans need to be hung by the colon from a burning tree.
I witness these bastards all of the time, parading the title “singer/songwriter” as thing of merit when it needs to be more correctly employed as a vile castigation and badge of contempt.
I know some great musicians, truly great, and I’m pleased to say that they are doing well – in their quiet and unassuming way and that the good musicians I know are proper, functioning people. They enjoy a pint and a knob joke as much as the next lad and don’t spend time telling you how amazing they were supporting some pissant mime act in a disused women’s refuge in Uttoxeter.
Proper musicians have beards and make your legs fall off when they sing. Proper musicians ask you what you’re drinking after a gig, not what you thought of the chorus in "I Can’t Believe She’s Gone And All That" or whatever self-loathing claptrap they were pouring out to a bunch of braindead buzz-vacuums who think they’re witnessing the ‘next big thing’ as opposed to the Mathew Street Festival’s latest moron.
I used to bob along to the open mic nights down at Hannah’s Bar. Ogo, the host, is a talented lad, well worthy of a listen. And then it would happen, some simpering little girl abusing a guitar with a pathetic attempt at playing the thing and her and her mate dueting some bollocks about ‘the falling leaves of my regret’. Get out. Nobody cares.
I guess that’s the point I want to make – nobody could give a flying rat’s teat for your troubles or your heartbreak, what we want is music. Proper, brilliant music.
I would say that the collective snot-rag that calls itself Coldplay must be held to blame for a lot of the lame tripe that hits your ears like a pair of par-boiled undercrackers. I thought those crying scarecrows had topped the prick list by having the gloriously unfunny Simon Pegg open their set but then I remembered the triumvirate of tedium that was Coldplay PLUS Gary Barlow PLUS professional nostalgia monkey Peter bastard Kay.
Seriously. I believe that this unholy collective are responsible for a nationwide drop in testosterone and carnal desire.
Ladies – and gents for that matter – if your fella hasn’t been pushing your buttons the way he used to, blame Coldplay. Blame them for everything that isn’t quite terrible or lethal but remains constant annoyance in your life. They are the sciatica of the music world.
I will round off with a truly delightful and wonderful moment from my past. Bass guitar hero and former member of the very proper and mighty Cecil – Jason Bennett - spies some frail, corduroy hearted shit for brains suiting up with a six string…
“Put that down love, you might hurt yourself.”