Black Days - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #192

When you complete your initiation into music criticism, when you still have warm calf’s blood on your face after gutting it with a snapped Oasis record. Your nether region is still strangely vibrating from the midnight ritual, and you have collected your critic papers, your obligatory stupid haircut and small idiosyncratic foibles (and there’s many a good tune played on a small foible) you are, at the most solemn part of the ceremony, handed a metal tin containing a single small red pill. You are informed that taking this pill will erase the memory of any single song. If you ever hear something that changes your world, convinces you that music isn’t the transcendent art form you always knew it was but actually was the greedy soulless hustle everyone keeps telling you it is. If ever you hear this song, take the pill, and you’ll be able to go on being a critic. “You’ll know when the time is right.”

[Disclaimer: Do not click this link. Do not expose yourself. If you feel you must damage yourself, seek out the number for the Samaritans in your country. This is present only to illustrate that like an inoperable eyeball cancer or a mushroom spore from outer space, Rebecca Black continues to make 'music'.]

The little red pill doesn’t fucking work! It’s a swindle! God fucking damnit!

Written under…

Oh who even fucking cares. Go away. I will get out of bed just long enough to arrange a grindcore playlist, and I will spend the rest of the day in bed, and tomorrow, I might write the review I was not quite ready for today. It’s either this, or open up my femoral artery after snapping my unplayed copy of the Dark Third and going to work as a theatre critic.

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