Your music is derivative of every old band I can think of and you do nothing but meander over tired, reprocessed themes until they become so trite and banal that Jimmy Page will probably start rolling in his grave as soon as he's dead.
Everytime I see your band name on myspace or wherever, I cringe both out of fear of your success and just bitter, bitter denial that people really accept you at such a high level. I constantly find myself wracking my brain for a reason to your success and the only thing I can think of is that your music is safe.
Safety.
Safety is something people like. They like to feel as though they are being held and stroked, as opposed to shaken. Your bland blend of tasteless corporate bullshit rock is constantly playing out of any speaker that you can grip and people eat it up like it's some new sound that is going to redefine the world.
And don't tell me you aren't interested in redefining music, because I can tell based off of your music that you're not. The rehashing of 70's chord progressions with misplaced modifiers and even more poorly placed metaphors that don't stand for anything puts so many words in my mouth that I have to bite my tongue to hold them in.
If you want to see fury, you shoud look at this unrolled piece of flypaper sticking out of my mouth. You'll see every word I've wanted to scream at you over the past couple of years as your rise to stardom has continued, and they will all buzz futilely as they attempt to escape from the deadly trap that I set to stop myself from committing verbal murder.
And as I mull through this series of hateful, hateful thoughts over and over again in my mind. I ask myself, what about my band? Oh right, I don't have one and I don't have any music and I just can't stand the fact that someone is going out there and having fun playing lame music and I'm sitting at home at my laptop, trying to tear them down for it.
I still hold everything that I said to be true, I just wish I could match your incomprehensable noise with my own someday, and show you how I think music should be done and try my hand at changing the world.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Benefits Of Thinking Economically
Sometimes, this feels so self-indulgent.
By sometimes, I mean all the time. Blogs are fucking ridiculous and I'm sure every blogger has written at least one blog about why blogs suck, so here's high hopes that this one won't turn out that way.
I have a lot to complain about, but not enough sadism to actually put people through the gauntlet of me talking about it. I like to think I'm merciful. Or sometimes, even nice.
I went out on Saturday. I woke up at 8:30 am (3 hours after I had gone to sleep), took a shower, ate some waffles, and drove over to Dia's house. From there, we figured out the directions from her house to the coastline and left. I drove for 2 hours before we reached Salisbury, where my grandfather lived, died, and is currently buried. We drove over to the old house to check on it and I found myself a little choked up seeing it as it was.
I've been visiting the house since I was born; this was the first time I was there without any of my parents and it was the first time I had seen all of the things that used to be neatly packed away; they were all spread out waiting to be sold or thrown out. It was a little unsettling to find bottles of gin and whiskey in the house; I should've figured out that if the man lives by himself, far away from his family, he's going to be drinking a lot.
All of the beds had been removed. Thrown away. They weren't needed anymore, no one was living there. My mother's old stuffed animals that I used to play with when I went over there had been thrown away. Old knick-knacks had been brought off of their shelves and put onto tables to be sorted through. It was really just weird to see his house utterly dismantled from the inside out, letting my childhood memories come out from the woodwork.
The moment I looked in each room, everything I had ever done inside of it came back to me. The first time I saw ET when I was 4 or 5 and I cried at the end ( it was also the first time I was ever ashamed of crying and told my mom that my I was just tired). The first christmas that I can still remember, when I was 6, when I got a beanie baby and it was my all-time favorite toy ever. The time I brought my guitar with me and broke a string and spent the rest of the weekend sulking that I didn't bring extras. The time I fell asleep on his couch for nearly the entirety of Easter weekend, which was the last time that I would see him.
He would always tell me to get my haircut and I would always laugh at him for making such a request. He would tell me that he liked me and I could tell that he meant it in a way that most grandparents probably wouldn't say to their children; we disagreed on a lot of things, but we never let the other know and we got along really great, even though I hardly ever spoke to him. When he died, my hair was shorter than it had been in years. He never saw.
After combing through the dusty records, I locked the house up. It was probably the last time I will ever see the inside of it. I'll finish the journey later, as it is 5:30 in the morning.
I promise the second half is much funnier and much less depressing. I'm just exhausted and can only recall bittersweet memories and feelings of unfulfilment
By sometimes, I mean all the time. Blogs are fucking ridiculous and I'm sure every blogger has written at least one blog about why blogs suck, so here's high hopes that this one won't turn out that way.
I have a lot to complain about, but not enough sadism to actually put people through the gauntlet of me talking about it. I like to think I'm merciful. Or sometimes, even nice.
I went out on Saturday. I woke up at 8:30 am (3 hours after I had gone to sleep), took a shower, ate some waffles, and drove over to Dia's house. From there, we figured out the directions from her house to the coastline and left. I drove for 2 hours before we reached Salisbury, where my grandfather lived, died, and is currently buried. We drove over to the old house to check on it and I found myself a little choked up seeing it as it was.
I've been visiting the house since I was born; this was the first time I was there without any of my parents and it was the first time I had seen all of the things that used to be neatly packed away; they were all spread out waiting to be sold or thrown out. It was a little unsettling to find bottles of gin and whiskey in the house; I should've figured out that if the man lives by himself, far away from his family, he's going to be drinking a lot.
All of the beds had been removed. Thrown away. They weren't needed anymore, no one was living there. My mother's old stuffed animals that I used to play with when I went over there had been thrown away. Old knick-knacks had been brought off of their shelves and put onto tables to be sorted through. It was really just weird to see his house utterly dismantled from the inside out, letting my childhood memories come out from the woodwork.
The moment I looked in each room, everything I had ever done inside of it came back to me. The first time I saw ET when I was 4 or 5 and I cried at the end ( it was also the first time I was ever ashamed of crying and told my mom that my I was just tired). The first christmas that I can still remember, when I was 6, when I got a beanie baby and it was my all-time favorite toy ever. The time I brought my guitar with me and broke a string and spent the rest of the weekend sulking that I didn't bring extras. The time I fell asleep on his couch for nearly the entirety of Easter weekend, which was the last time that I would see him.
He would always tell me to get my haircut and I would always laugh at him for making such a request. He would tell me that he liked me and I could tell that he meant it in a way that most grandparents probably wouldn't say to their children; we disagreed on a lot of things, but we never let the other know and we got along really great, even though I hardly ever spoke to him. When he died, my hair was shorter than it had been in years. He never saw.
After combing through the dusty records, I locked the house up. It was probably the last time I will ever see the inside of it. I'll finish the journey later, as it is 5:30 in the morning.
I promise the second half is much funnier and much less depressing. I'm just exhausted and can only recall bittersweet memories and feelings of unfulfilment
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