Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Ninth Day of Summer

Flippin through pages of an issue of Rolling Stone Magazine. Let's see here: Do I read an in depth article on Justin Bieber or turn the next page and read about the history of The Clash? Seriously, I hate to sound old, but what the hell happened to music? Why do I feel that Justin Bieber should not have one article written about him in that magazine. It's probably the same side of me that hates anyone who hosts Saturday Night Live who isn't naturally funny. I love to tune in and see how great Paris Hilton is at sketch comedy. Fucking bitch. It's all about selling to the masses. Damnit!
I deal with this with my roommate. She listens to music that I label "pure shit". She loves it and I have to accept that, but it does absolutely nothing for me. I think it's more about the words now? Who can say the most fucked up shit and get away with the most and offend the most people? Put a bass beat behind it and you're good. I'm told that they have a talent, but I've heard the one song that they all have produced and I get it. I don't even like all the music that rock groups are playing now. I'm addicted to classic rock when the music fucking soared above all levels of creativity and talent. speaking of lyrics, we all know where Puff the Magic Dragon lived and where Lucy was with her diamonds. They were sold on their talents, not their looks. And the more drugs they did, the crazier their music was. They didn't do drugs as a status symbol. They didn't write music to talk about how they did drugs or had sex. They wrote music on the drugs and when they were done, then they had sex. Lots and lots of sex, and they didn't have to advertise it to anyone. I mean have you see Pete Towsend? The Rolling Stones are not a handsome group of men. Tom Petty and Bob Dylan didn't have a pussy posse. Believe me, if Pink Floyd would have written and performed the songs that Britney Spears, any of the assholes on American Idol, or anything that's on the sound track to Jersey Shore, they would have had to pack up their flying pigs and go back to England. I don't hear anyone taking chances in music anymore. You can sell a look now. It's hard to sell heart.
I'm old. I get it.

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