Good evening, dear reader, you who read me sipping a glass of fruit juice multi-vitamin. It is certainly very surprising to me that display proudly as vulgar and devoid of class on this blog yet so wonderful. However, what other term could hang your vile provocative look hawk in search of fuss (yes, the last time, they say fuss, no buzz)? What other short and concise sentence would illustrate the topic I'm going to treat you, like a pornographic actor in front of a child in infancy? What other sentence would announce shortly and want to read anything but this demonstration science?
Well, I do not see. And even you, you'd see, I shook the tuber with a safety pin fluorescent yellow, if you'll pardon the expression. Note that discrete passage vous.
First, let's warning: Some people will perhaps accuse me of running in the loop the vinyl of my hatred towards the rest of humanity, thus playing the same tune about the same individuals and the same subjects. To those, I say no, I never specifically addressed this topic, even though I said a few bases in other articles. And also, know that I'm rocking the neon yellow with a pin tuber nurse.
Now, if I may, let me to address the subject itches fingertips: the music business. Yes, the art of selling his crap, there are also gay vampire books, movies with more special effects than dialogue and clothing that burn the eyes of people not suffering from acute blindness, but that you keep it for later, each art as it comes.
How radio created the groupie.
Truce of introduction, which I find far too long, when it is only a preface. Let me set you: You wear a leather jacket. On your shoulders, nails. Your pants ripped beats against your legs while your rangers with mismatched laces rattle noise of your footsteps. There, a person extremely intellectually evolved and spirit more open that oyster, my goodness, away to be more fresh, decided to teach you what true Music. On one arm movement more graceful than the most gracious of brown bears, he hits the keyboard of the hand. Then come out of its integrated speakers on the screen sounds very nasty, also called "low hood for a humanoid can scream insanities American interspersed with "West Coast" without musicality can not be at the rendezvous. " When
, polite and courteous, you ask this person if it would be possible to reduce somewhat the volume, if not entirely eliminating the rude chant, he replies: "But you, your music, your metal, there is noise. "
At that time, coughed a little, and
... NO! "Ma" is not called Metal music as you claim. The sounds of "my" music may not be relatives of yours, but this is nothing noise. This is music involved (but in the sense anarchist not communist), whose objective is to drive the shock in the listener and convey a certain energy. Violence in music is a permanent reference to violence in the world that surrounds the group, this company he is criticizing. Yes, 'my' musicians sing false. Yes, "my" musicians playing poorly. Yes, "my" musicians talk about other than their latest porn story. And after? The air is there, the music is there, some guitar solos are far more entrancing than Mozart's Requiem, and life appears to be different on these words that are not controlled by record companies politically-correct.
Nothing to see, it is true, with these depraved in mini-skirt and bra ripped dancing to the rhythm of their cellulite recently pumped. Their voices distorted by hours of editing to suggest they have some talent, yet non-existent, except those that exceed them generously (s?) Garment (s?).
It is true that, faced with these songs so true and original escape from every radio, singing alternately love, disappointment in love, love, generosity, love, sadness due to the love, generosity, modesty, parental divorce, love, persecution suffered by the poor star, love, and the commercial revolution (ie a revolution as violent as "all trunks on the head! W00t!"), my music is a sonic excrement.
This is an artist. No, his eyes are higher, gentlemen.
One feels that she was chosen solely for her voice, and she does
anything to defend the honor of women.
I also accept that when the ear tends toward musical geniuses such as those we hear every day, who mysteriously disappeared after an album and leave with us a little song that will not leave Our skull is so complex melody, are truly phenomenal. Nothing to do with these bands coming out albums for 20 or 30 years. Vive Le Roi Soleil and Mondotek, which can die in peace after laying a single album.
Not content to attack us in the organs of sound, this so-called music is also needed on television. We can then explore the full capacity art behind this electronic music and the voice distorted. The young woman or young man surrounded by young women, under artificial lighting, with sets overrated, singing platitudes without a name, such walks (on) in one case, a prostitute looking for a little temporary countered, and in another, a gigolo who violate seems so difficult to coax so there is already modeling their feet, or rather in his convertible (or his yacht, depending on the level of his ego).
Between these pieces of uninteresting life so erotic film, one can admire a child, probably son of the owner of the record label, singing trivial things, stupid, naive and uninteresting, or for a child or for us.
can also add to the already long list if a bunch of virtual characters 100% are only able to remix music from 70s rock to make dung dance of the 2010s, animators who had better TVs remain in their emissions instead of resuming Kiss, political parties who feel more attractive when they sing, and persuaded pimply teenagers know everything about everything, so they do not tell that the worst possible ignominy. Once again, without there being the slightest interest, both musical and intellectual behind it.
"Hello, I'm Lady Gaga. No, nothing to do with the previous
: me, my world and I really
my style to me. Yes, yes. Ok, then I forgot everything at home. "
So maybe "my" music is noise to your ears hooked to what the consumer society forces you to be confused with real music, but it at least has the merit of not being there to sell but to change things. This
said, back to our starting scene. You can now break the keypad on the face of the happy fool who dared to disrespect him pin your rangers (they must be useful) in the face and once on the ground, reminding him that when you want rest, you listen to Vivaldi.
Oh, and if you think that I've not seen, know that if. Stop listening to your radio when I say, finally.
Subscribe to the blog and never miss.
0 comments:
Post a Comment