September 3, 2012 - August 27, 2012
. Music spat in my face and took its own life on October 3, 2000, the day Radiohead released their Kid A record. Sure, there've been songs and bands I've liked since then, but they've been exceptions, aberrations, heretics in the 21st century. Death rattles. Music's suicide note read, in part, "I'm tired of going from strength to strength, ferocity to ferocity, exaltation to exaltation. It's just too much WORK to feel that good. This shady corner of my bedroom looks cozy. It's cool and there's hardly any light to hurt my eyes. I'm going to curl up there for a while, bury my face in my sleeves. My self-pitying moans are all you'll hear from me. But don't let my shaking back and forth fool you. I have passed on."
She didn't say when she'd be back. She goes through moods like this every now and then-- remember Disco? Or the Mrs. Miller craze? Ha ha, everyone's old and tone deaf, I get it!-- and you just have to be patient and wait for her to snap out of it.
Thing is, I'm starting to worry she won't. It's been more than 10 years, and post-Pink Floyd noodling, woe-is-me crybaby crap is still the order of the day. Whining is just how you sing now. Even bands that on the surface seem dedicated to rocking out are still whining.
Even rap, which was supposed to be the last gasp of artistic defiance before the long night of Scientific Orthodox Collectivism, has devolved from NWA ass-kicking, Public Enemy (attempted) social consciousness, and Eminem guts-turning-inside-out to... well... to this.
I worry because this is the new decade. Music is supposed to change AT LEAST once a decade, right? Elvis sinks Eddie Fisher. The Beatles sink rockabilly (bad). Madonna sinks Christopher Cross (good). Nirvana sinks all that damned hair metal with one hit.
Go ahead. Bitch about Nirvana. Would you rather Cherry Pie had been the act everyone tried to follow? For a whole decade? Or try this: Scream along with Very Ape and tell me it isn't the Punkest thing you've heard in a minute. You're always wrong.
But then Radiohead and a fleet of Radiohead wanna-bes sank almost everything I wanted to listen to. I remember not hating the radio. Those days are gone.
But it's 2011! Where's my asethetic changeover? Where's my Next Kind of Popular Music?
I think I've found it.
Imagine that put to a club beat. Music that literally, physiologically, only the young can hear. THAT'S the music of a respectable future.
Don't look at me like I'm crazy. It's already begun.
Begun? Hell, it's already out there. Don't tell me you haven't seen them. Packs of youths with their straight-billed backwards caps (they all leave the retail hologram stickers on the bills! Swear to God that's the new thing) and even more enormous-er coats and pants worn lower than their shoes, bobbing their heads in silence. Are they praying? Mourning a fallen gang member?
No. If you'll cup your ancient ear, you'll hear the occasional squeaky groan. That's the low parts on their new favorite music.
You know how in horror movies it's always scarier when you don't see the monster or killer? You'll feel the same way when that street-rumbling bass in ridiculous souped-up Hondas suddenly goes silent.
Adults will mock this music on late night shows and amongst themselves by making no noise. Ha ha. The kids will let you laugh.
Tea with honey will be the new reefer. Singing along to songs pitched that high is a real strain on a young throat.
Now you're thinking "Dude, what the hell are you gloating about? You'll never hear it. You haven't been a teenager for a long time."
Silly rabbit. I'm Brizoni.
I hear everything.
June 6. D-Day. But I've turned it all over. So it's
aaaallllllll turned over. What a relief. Tired of being responsible
for what happens next. Last (second to last, third to last, etc) post.
Forget D-Day. They died. I die too. Every day. Every goddammed day. But then again I'm not the cerebral InstaPunk or the homely CountryPunk. I'm just a rank barbarian, not going quietly into that good night. I have not subsided. I have been silenced -- in favor of supposedly more virulent voices. It may be true that I'm dilatory and inattentive, but Brizoni can't spell or define dilatory and he's not so much inattentive as AWOL He learned all his economics from Rand. Which means he hasn't a clue how to explain the guilt of Steve Jobs or Bill Gates, both of whom feel really really guilty. Awwww. I can't wait.
Something about a double-dip recession. Something you might not enjoy, oh you totalitarians. Oh, I forgot. Brizoni has his own totalitarians to worship. All named Ayn Rand. Sorry. Anti-totalitarians. Meaning they're totalitarians anti the anti's. Like have an MBA or suffer the fate of all committed anti-capitalists. Like Antonio Francisco. According to the literary evidence, he gave Dagny Taggart many fine orgasms. But there's no evidence Rand ever had a single one.
TruePunk sliding free and away....
P.S. I've been assured we'll get a "Detroit" post from Brizoni. We'll see. If not, we'll be back all hammer and tongs...
PPS. Yeah, it's still the anniversary of D-Day. Permit me to sneak in my awe and respect, regardless of the new age of ignorance.
ADDENDUM: Final thought. Much as I hate Harvard for its politics, I still love it for this. Sorry.