I can't help noticing that despite my impassioned and articulate plea to end all of this "Music Industry" nonsense, the aural debacle still continuos, like the first rabbit to survive myxo, hopping along with it's laboured breath, destroyed nervous system and bloodshot orbs dangling from it's thoughtless furred head (Yes, Cosmic Psychos, I am talking to you).
In fact the only thing keeping life in it's zombified carcass is the sad truth that it's too stupid to die.
Indeed, I can't help but notice that some "people" are still encouraging this crank wankery, (much in the same way the British stuffed as much opium up the heathen Chinee's arsehole as they could ram in with a gunboat, just so they could sit down and have a quiet cuppa after a hard day of flogging the darkies.)
Case example- Have you ever sat down to enjoy a delightful slice of Jaffa Cake and a spot of caffeine without being assaulted by some dreadful ear stench wafting from the speakers?
Or gone on a date with someone who you think is a bit of allright and not had to endure Missy "Muffdivin''" Higgins moaning her imperceptible tits off about how it's all gone wrong before she turned 22? (My take on Missy's life- You are a dull corporate whore dressed up as the Casey Chambers we had to have. All you prove is Australians hate themselves . If you were on fire, I'd stagger full bladder up the road, leaking from the nostrils and relieve myself far enough away that you couldn't even roll in the damp patch. You are the worst thing to happen to music since the Synthesiser. Now fuck off).
Yet, everywhere one turns, there is the plaintive caterwaul of the Higgins, ruining my fuckin day and making me want to kill and kill again.
Was there a referendum that said "O.k. Who votes we get rid of silence and conversation? Who votes we stuff gobs of aural shit in your brain everywhere you go, at all times of the day, forever, until you die?".
If there was, my apologies. Democracy is the best. Just look at the Top 40 and tell me I'm wrong.
Or fuckin' John Butler. There is more fresh young talent in the fresh laid turd that popped out of some coma patient's arse this morning than in that self aggrandising, simpering luddite, with his beady fuckin rat eyes and his over wrought, over played and over here guitar onanisms.
Truly, I have heard rats with a belly full of plaster skitter to death with more groove than the ol' JB's sterile toons.
If 60's and 70's black soul was a funky, stinky plate of the French dairy horn, JB is about as funky as a Kraft single.
And frankly, that's being generous, because his his ditties are far more like the wrapping than the cheese.
I'll say it once and I'll say it again.
You take the sadness out of blues music and it's just some stupid cunt boring everyone shitless with the same three fuckin chords.
It's nothing but the Tupperware of music, dull unfeeling platitudes for people who like the idea of dirt, but don't really want to get dirty.
Truly, this jex headed smugmobile needs a beating. Or cancer. Or both.
But lets not forget those four chord personifiers of bland, proving you can actually take the music out of music without anyone really noticing, The Waifs.
Good God. (which simply isn't possible with existence if theses three inbred, nasal toned arsefuckers).
I have had the terrible misfortune of hearing many bands who actually possessed the wretched curse of being really good musicians and having something interesting to say.
Needless to say they all lie dead and buried twenty miles out into Bass Straight.
Yet here come a bunch of dick twiddlin' sand-gropers, whose only claim to fame is that they can make perfectly good air sound like cheap NQR Tofu and have enough contempt for humanity to do it again and again and again.
Is it because they are any good? Noooooooo! Heaven forfend...it's just that their brand of anti-music can be put on anywhere and be virtually ignored if you really try hard enough.
I believe their main claim to fame is that they have managed to turn Australian music into a kind of jingoistic retelling of something that never happened, so people who have no fuckin lives can pretend they've been somewhere that doesn't exist.
May you all contract brain herpes, you bastards.
What's more you can't escape it.
Indeed if it's not the infernal fweep squeaking of some googlehead who pushed the 'Electro" button on it's new Ipoodle or the earnest meeping of some fairy breathed prongoloid who learnt three chords and then got the fat girl in year nine to squeak out something moronically accompanying on a cello/violin/harp/accordian/pissflap or some albino inner city pants fondler playing the amplifier in a band of dribble dicked clit snorters, (whose raspy roars are yet to match up with their freshly descended testicles), or some bunch of "Love the World" faux-funk misrelites singing some upbeat dirge about how we should all get along as long as we never play anything but the first four bars of anything that well meaning Freddo Frog of Peace, Bob Marley, wrote, or some angry bunch of suburban dudes who looked up "Angst" on Wikipedia while Mum ironed their false eyelashes and took out their poor results for a Home Economics exam out on a op shop keyboard or ,worse yet, a bunch of pill brained, well meaning, neuvo guano fashion dandies heaving their vintage sound about like a fat Albanian prostitute who'd just been reamed in Sydney.
You just can't get away from it.
Sooky stranglings in Super market. Coma inducing croons in the cafe. Pubescent puerility in the Pub.
But lets not forget that the punishment doesn't stop there. Oh heavens no.....
You can now buy iArsehole, which is a small spiky device bunged up the clack so you never have to endure a private thought again without the frothy fanfares of modern life.
Rhumba while you root. Soundscapes while you sleep.
Every moment of your life given a B Grade soundtrack by a bunch of people you'd punch in the face if you had to sit next to them on the bus.
It's worse than heroin, AIDS, Global warming, Bird Flu and a constant itching ring combined. True dinks.
My advice is this.
Turns off your bloody thing and see how long you can stand the gentle creakings of your own skull.
Sit in silence for a couple of minutes and just see how long it takes you to run screaming over to the quadraphonic surround sound for another hit of hits.
Go for a drive and don't listen to the anal mutterings of any sort of radio. (They're all terrible anyway.)
Go find a place that has no facility for equalisation and have a bloody good groove to fuck all and just see how long you can stand it before you scream home with your car stereo on full blast, attempting to tie yourself off with your fucking iPod, until you can get home and roll around naked in your C.d.'s, you filthy fucking helpless pitiful music junkie, you.
Until next time,
Mick "Deaf is the new Black" Dog.