I've just heard the Miley Cyrus cover of Bob Dylan's superb You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go. Don't look it up, don't even give them the traffic, please trust me that it is bleach-drinkingly awful. As you might now reasonably expect I am going to have a massive bile-vent. It's nice really, because I've been becoming angry and miserable about not having enough to be angry and miserable about. I could write my usual schtick about how the recession has caused already pupae-like record executives in smartly pressed business suits that fail to hold in any soul warmth to shrink further into their crevices for fear of losing their money if a original artistic vision penetrates their subconcious, not realising that money is paper and when you die great music earns you an extra comfy bed in paradise while being the kind of moneygrubbing cynic who'd be willing to whore out their ageing mother if they thought there'd be a buck in it will land you a cramped and decrepit house made of shit and scytheblades in Hell, but I don't feel like saying that. I'll just pose a genuine question to which I'd like an answer.
What kind of unbelievable violences and horrors must be visited upon a small child to irreparably warp them into the kind of depraved sociopathic corporate drone with a connection to the rest of humanity like a starved Pitbull straining against its ever-weakening chain that would suggest, green-light, produce and distribute a three minute recording that completely sums up the soul-dead state of modern music? A piece of collected sound so loathsome in its every slightest state and aspect, from conception via execution to the fact I had to find out about it on fucking Twitter; from the truly worthless and tedious final product and the doubtless massive airplay and interest it will receive as a product of that spineless wench while masterpieces dust-up on record shop shelves across our nation; part of a neat tableau expressing precisely everything that has turned music from a world-uniting force into three minutes of porridge designed to keep you occupied while they hoover banknotes out of your wallet.
Surprisingly I'm not usually one to hate on all the teenybopper singers overly. Beiber and the others are just people trying to sing some songs, marshaled from one task to the next by shady businessmen who'd do well to think about the similarities between forcing a small child to perform sexualised love songs on stage so they can get rich, and making children sew trainers... But when this starts to impact the things I love I begin to be filled with murder-frenzy.
I'll just end this with an announcement. Please leave a comment if you'd like to join my cult, we'll buy some land somewhere and live on a communal farm for a while and then on an agreed signal we'll just all line up in the town square and commit ritual suicide.
Our epitaph? The world just got too shitty.
Written under extreme duress by Steven.