Friday, March 26, 2010

Put a plant on my head and call me cool. Please.

Lady Gaga. The name strikes fear into my raging bile duct. Her music is repetitive, her melodies unmelodious and her musicality non-existent. Yet, for some indeterminable reason, she's famous, considered outrageously talented and wears small children as hats. Pa pa pa pokerface papa pokerface. I'd like to, with a large, pointed stick. We are a society of followers, kneeling at the altar of obscurity.

Whatever happened to the music being of the most importance? When Joe Cocker performed at Woodstock, the most exciting thing about his performance, visually, was his t-Rex hand, hovering outrageously next to his left shoulder as he belted out some of the best music this world has heard. (granted that's a biased opinion but this IS my blog so if you don't appreciate my opinion, tell it to my foot.) Jimi Hendrix, granted, had an afro, wore tie -dye and painted daisies onto his guitar, but his performance was about his music. “All along the Watchtower” needed no bells and whistles, it needed no lace and frills, it was devoid of Kermit-the-frog outfits and was not left wanting.

Surely this is simply an expression of the extent to which pop music leaves much to be desired. The music played on radio is prototype after prototype of the first disastrous tastes of Popular music the world was exposed to way back in the medieval times. I speak, of course of the 50's. The unwavering chord progressions that are held dear to the hearts of all pop music writers have been exhausted. I don't care how many electro beats and voice manipulation you add to this music, it still sucks. I implore my readers, do not be fooled by the pretty, shiny outfits. You are not a moth. Listen to the real music and the Cool will come.

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