I really ought to stop staying up so fucking late...
...cos I start writing shit like this.
Now that my good friend Withiel has been plied with enough mind-altering snuff powder to allow me to post directly rather than by proxy (as with my article on the subject of the general desirability of smoking and how bloody good it is for you, and you, and yes, small rumple-haired unattractively-proportioned-faced child, you too), I really should stop staying up this late, because I really have no idea where this sentence was going or how I should finish it.
To the point... am I the only "musician" on this Godforsaken (and therefore, since God "is" omnipresent, NONEXISTENT (Q.E.D.(take that, O mighty cliché-creating theologian phrase-coiners))) nebula of perception that has noticed how much that chap what percusses for the Foo Fighters looks like Kurt Cobain? Irony, anybody?
I think we should be told.
Furthermore, I am somewhat concerned about the direction that popular, and even underground, alternative music has been taking recently.
It all seems to tend towards what is commonly known as "Emo".
The Common or Garden variety of Emo has its roots in somewhat unimaginative punk bands ("Surely not!" I hear ye cry) who cash in on the hormonal angst of impressionable adolescents by tearing out heavy-hearted, self-lacerating pieces on the Joys of Getting Dumped, or Having Your Girlfriend Killed in a Car-Crash, or Being Cheated Upon*, or Coming from a Broken Home, or Missing Your Girlfriend, or Killing Your Girlfriend, or Being Killed by Your Girlfriend who has been Cheating Upon** You Whilst Your Divorcee Parents Get Killed in a Car Crash Moments After Their Joyful Reconciliation When, Just for a Moment, it Looks Like Everything Might Turn Out Okay, But Oh No, Luckily We've Fucked It All Up Again So That We can Sing About It and Make Lots of Money...
The themes are few, but the permutations un-finite.
As enjoyable as Emo is (and what with being a huge closet supporter of the genre myself, I oughtn't throw stones), it is attaining a dangerously high level of general acceptance (haha, phonetic pun). Any locus of sonic mediocrity that wants to make a stain on the world and gain the love and fanaticism of viewers of pop music channels like Kerrang, or even (marginally) more alternative outlets such as MTV2, need only churn out some "heart-rending" "tear-jerker" lyrical nonsense with a repeating treble appogiaturic motif (usually on undistorted electric guitar, acoustic guitar, or piano) over the top of The Emo Riff (perfect V - diminished V - I). And it works every time. And, which is worse, I still like it. Everyone likes it.
Wallowing in your own emotions is one of the few sadomasochistic pleasures still deemed acceptable in polite society. Protest about the anguish of emotional burden all you like, it is nonetheless true that you enjoy the psychological self-mutilation, deep within yourself. I believe it is a worthwhile portion of the Human Experience, for if you have not allowed yourself to indulge in your own mysterious psychological fetishes, or remain virgin to the reportedly less pleasant emotional cruises, you have not truly experienced the vibrant range of existential sensations that, it can be argued, define you.
Bearing in mind my earlier musing on the maintenance of [alarums] Diversity of Thought, you might say that this may well be no bad thing. However, I like my art to exist in a state of constant variety rather than linear temporal variety; having the two in conjunction is, furthermore, preferable to either on its own. To put it another way: I bore easily. When I am done with having my heart-chords shredded by inexpertly-wielded plectra, I want to hear something political, or philosophical,*** or (deity-recently-disproved-by-means-of-debunking-of-oxymoronic-cliché forbid) something upbeat.
It's well nigh 4am now, so to conclude:
I shall ride along with this swell until it reaches my subjective critical mass (i.e. when the level of mediocrity and repetition is great enough to cause me to throw my stereo at the wall) at which point my tool shall penetrate deep into the moving parts of the machine (hur, hur) by boycotting the genre, and refusing to talk about it in public. Experience teaches me that eventually, other listeners too will reach their own breaking points (a long time after I do) and as pressure levels change in the alternative music subclimate, cold fronts will bear down on Emo, and the winds of opinion... Christ, I really do pull some overripe flanging metaphors from my literary armpit.
It's now 04:15 GMT, though dubiously-logically-disproven-pancreator only knows what it will say on the Blog posting time. Perhaps I should bring my, er -- freeform -- essay to a close.
(I assure you, whilst I am a "case" who is "sad" enough to stay up until this un-literarily-logically-debunked-supreme-beingly hour, as well as disproving either my existence or that of any God by some very poor logical deduction from the word "Godforsaken", and, indeed, thereafter refusing to refer to it as anything but "logically-impossible-breast-tumour" or some other such spaff, I am not "sad" enough to make this up. I really am still up, and it really is now... 04:21 GMT. Dawn, June 2nd)
Good morning, I'm going to bed.
*(or "Apon" as Withiel would have it)
***(Five ducats and a Mars bar to any man who spots an essay I write which does not include the words "political" and "philosophical". Call in now and you may also receive a Lamp Without Oil for seeking out Honest Men, or similar philosophical**** icon)
****(See? There it is again*****)
*****(My apologies for the over-use of Pratchettesque footnotes)
Never take anything anyone says too seriously.