“MUSIC IS DEATH!” That’s what the neon sign large as a billboard should say on the hill above my house. Think of how many lives could be saved. All the smoke-addled rock musicians, bedeviled blues guitarists, heroin addicted jazzers, not to mention their speed and travel-blasted crews, roadies, entourage, lackeys and flunkies, they could be steered to useful vocations as drug abuse counselors, astronomers, postal carriers, tug boat deckhands. They could live positive lives, not suicidal stereotypes of artistic nutcases, instead of dying early they might hang out with their children, getting health back. Music is death, think of all the artistic careers that futile pursuit of pop stardom has destroyed. THINK of all the deluded masses who muddle through their lives, hypnotized by celebrity cults of vapid divas and crooners, hoping to get a warm feeling when the PA pipes cliched lyrics into their cells. Music is commercialized hypnosis, thrumming lulling nonsense with desultory beat, pulsing drone of commercial preconceptions and brain-filler. It’s the cult soundtrack of capitalist times. Pop horseshit with youth whored out forever. Trying to be cool. Total cliche. Absurd recycling of wasted breath. Repackaged old styles. Repeated rehashed filler. That piano has bad intentions. The drumset has contempt for all of you. Don’t listen to it! Pay no attention. It wants your noodles preoccupied. This guitar wants to kill your mama. It wants you swallowing romantic cliches when you can barely pay your bills. It wants you sitting there passively clapping like a clapper. It’s all lip-sync for endless marketed preconception. You must wean yourself; you must get off it; you must strike out into a world of silence and noise. Take out the stupid ear buds.

 

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