How come I have to listen to these whiny acoustic guitar playing girls sing about “I lost my virginity and nobody cared,” and “my feelings was hurt by a boy I knew” and “I broke my pudding cup.” These girls aren’t fooling me into thinking that they have it rough and have some deeper philosophy to share just because they’ve been through SO MUCH… as much as I don’t like it when thin pimply guys with checkered shirts and glasses with thick rims whine to me via acoustic guitar, at least I can buy that they’ve had it rough because they’re these really thin pimply guys with checkered shirts and glasses with thick rims! But these girls are drop dead gorgeous or, failing that, really cute in glasses with thick rims. They aren’t fooling anybody; they’re not the sorts of girls to get hurt by guys, they crush men in their hands if they know how good looking they are, and if they don’t, then that’s to imply that they’re sort of dense, in which case, why am I taking classes in philosophy from a whiny easy-listening pile of spackle?
You should not be allowed to write music on hotel napkins while you are on the rag.
Listen to those Indie guys, they’re imparting something very secret, something very important, to you. They knew you were going to buy this album and that you would be moved by the revelations they had to offer. I know. It’s amazing. It’s their glasses that do it. And the harder they whine, the more important the message, usually about a rose or some shit. They call this emo, because apparently it’s sort of emotional, and they call it post-grunge, because apparently it came after grunge.
Think about it guys, if you know how to play guitar and want a girl to like you, as you sit on the beach with her, or in a coffee shop, or up to her balcony, or even lying in bed next to her, she’ll melt like raspberry filled chocolates, which are also a good idea. However, don’t be surprised when some guy is suddenly beating you up for two reasons, 1) you’re clearly gay, and 2) this girl is way too hot for you regardless. So he hit you. Darwin was right.
And besides, nobody cares what you’re feeling… save it for when you go to Slam Poetry night at your local hookah bar.
If you feel the need to have violin accompaniment in your set, you better damned well have a good reason, and I sure as hell better not hear you get radio play. You’re not Paul McCartney and you better BELIEVE you ain’t Charlie Daniels. Seriously, when are we going to see some cello rock?
And then there’s these artists that try to be WAY TOO weird. They think that the more experimental (re:blatantly desregarding) the more progressive (re:discordian), that they get, the more respect that they’ll get from fans and critics alike, the first group is easy to please, and any artist who worries about the second is compromising his integrity. Dude, you know its crap, I know its crap, why are you trying so hard to impress us? Great, you read a lot, and know who Chaucer is and have an understanding of symbolism. Great, you like Syd Barret. Yes, you’ve been to other countries and know what their music sounds like (re: bought a worldbeat CD from a rack in the back of a Hallmark store). They ignore proven music theory, practice and methodology. There’s a reason that you put those three sounds together, genious, it’s called a chord. Some songs have them. And some songs, contrary to popular belief, do not employ PVC piping like some fucking Blue Man Group reject. You are not blue, and you never will be, stop playing like you are, even if your head is shaved.
It’s cool, be as weird as you want, you will never equal, in my mind, the weird of one ‘Weird Al’ Yankovic. It doesn’t really matter to me… nothing really matters… to me.
And by the way, stop relying on computer generated music as an important element to your song. This has been biting the BBC Radiophonic Workshop in the ass since the late seventies, and now has become so amalgamated with other musical genres, that it doesn’t phase one of these more ‘experimental’ types into replacing the percussion sections, bass, or possibly even horn section, with looped electronica. The more seemingly complicated, the better. It distracts the listener from noticing that the singer(s) are, in fact, repeating the same six words over and over. We GET it, you can mix genres, so can classical composers, but do you think anybody ever got a migraine from the unholy union of operatic themes and waltz rhythm? This type of overoriginality, overthought, and arrogant self-lauding music needs a reality check, especially when they go so far as to put techno, African drums, and Scottish bagpipes in the SAME SONG! It’s not that I just don’t understand or appreciate the genius that is your complexity. I get it, it’s just wrong. You know what? I bet there’s a lot of complicated layers to your average construction site, but that doesn’t mean it would make good music. Labels hate you because you’re hard to market when your niche market is so small. Since when did anything esoteric get successful? And I know, I know. You’re not about the fame and success, you just want people to think because of the evolutionary bullshit you bring to their front door. Sit on it, Potsy. You know as well as I do that you’re in it for the bitches. If you weren’t then you’d write a fucking book or join the 700 club. And on top of that, your ideas usually aren’t that good.
It’s not like the artists who are just goofy. They know they’re goofy, I know they’re goofy. Everybody’s open and honest about this and nobody takes anybody seriously, not the customers who buy this goofy, goofy shit, or the artists who see a bunch of fans enjoying something so goddamed goofy.
And this techno bullshit! Jesus Christ and Jerry Mathers as the Beaver, this shit is annoying. They go off on the same beat for what seems like hours on end or DAYS if you’re stoned, then they do the breakdown, then another, and then you realize there are no real breakdowns because these aren’t real INSTRUMENTS! It’s all shit I could have made on my Fisher-Price electronic keyboard when I was four! But this shit took its roots in the time when video games suddenly had sixteen bits, and that must mean that serious composers could get to work scoring very consequential and important electronica!
I do not want to listen to your looped audio of the time your cat made a really cool noise and you happened to get it on tape, any more than I want to hear quotes from Speed Racer. I tried to forget that show and almost succeeded for a reason, asshole!
I don’t know what Big Beat is, either, but I know what it makes me want to do. It makes me want to take something big, and beat somebody with it until they stop looping the same damned NOTE!
And the ones that aren’t really Dance Dance fucking Revolution Raver shit, offend me even MORE because they exist not as something to take E and lose yourself into on a binge, but some type of contemplative mood music for people who want to ‘meditate’ and apparently don’t know any traditional chants. They fucking pop in a melodic and fourth-note heavy slow mix of some type of South American mythological themes, light up the incense and other stuff as well, and think about how they’d like to learn Buddhism, some time, if they ever get around to it. Shit, the meter man is coming today. Dancing the night away bumping ass and spinning glow sticks is one thing, hell, its damn fun! But deluding yourself into thinking that this type of relaxing white noise from some technological studio of the future is going to lull you into nirvana? Fuck that, I’ll just get stoned and watch “Night Gallery.”
Or, it’s dark and brooding. Yeah, like that’s going to get you a date. Your creepy Adam’s Family goth techno isn’t going to get your virginity lost any faster. Dark and brooding, yay. Like everything has to be Vangelis’ Blade Runner soundtrack. If you’re just going to go see Cirque Du Soleil to take notes on how the songs are starting, stay at home and watch them on Bravo. Or, just download them. Apparently, the contortion acts don’t impress you.
The more goth they get the more annoying they get, it’s like everybody saw that they wear leather in the Matrix and so must buy every single album where people hit metal objects with other metal objects and wear too much makeup, even for the club kids. There are only three colors for these people, white, black, and whatever that glowing neon shit is at the current moment. Let me guess, these people have a lot of candles, and I’ll bet most of them are in the shape of a skull. You don’t transcend anything, and you aren’t friends with the Grim Reaper now just because of the music you listen to, he’ll take you just as soon as anyone else. If you don’t O.D., then at least let one of those girls over there in the netted clothing have kinky knife sex with you until she hits something vital and record sales drop. Parents will blame it on the music, and even if they’re not right, at least the ends justify the means.
For the record, the Grim Reaper listens to Reggae, which shall remain untouched for the remainder, other than to say that using steel drums doesn’t necessarily get you into this category any more than drinking bourbon makes you zydeco.
Which somehow brings me into metal. There are basically only four heavy metal songs; there’s the one that starts all slow and Gregorian, or like greensleaves or some minuet shit, and just when you’re actually starting to enjoy that, they fucking cut in with the heavy duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh, it’s like when radio stations play the first ten seconds of a song you really like, and then deviate into a another one, and you just want to hear the whole fucking song, as is. And they can sing whatever the fuck they want because nobody understands them anyhow. Seriously, dude, why are you yelling at me? I… don’t… even… know… you.
Also, there’s the type of metal song that’s slow and lumbering, like a train that was actually a large larvae, and it pulls its weight across your eardrums, meanwhile a repetitive and slightly faster guitar with spikes on it is playing in the background. This slow song builds itself up into an epic, even if it’s only six minutes long. It’s like the Bolero of the metal world, crushing everything in its way, which is not necessarily a bad thing, considering what other musical genres lay closest to it. But beware these songs, they can sometimes go on forever, especially in concert, so bring something long and sharp enough to pierce your eardrums, and a rag to bite down on.
You got the metal songs that start with some fast guitar lick right out of the gate like some rapid machine gun fire, and other mixed metaphors. If kicking somebody in the balls makes them sound like Mickey Mouse, then this singing is the exact opposite. Like a reverse hernia to the testicles. The only consolation is that they’re short, but that’s just an excuse to put a lot of them on the record. I imagine that singing a few songs like that in front of an audience results in that feeling in the back of your throat like you get when you burp up a little bile. These songs don’t count unless they contain words like blood, die, massacre, holocaust, bone-hacking, flesh-eating, and certainly Mother-Fucking Doom. Don’t be surprised if these songs, despite starting up fast, suddenly rock out even faster later on in the song, this is so that just when fans are acclimating to the speed it started with, the band kicks it up an Emeril notch into high gear and they’re all like, “Dude, I thought that was as fast as it went, but ma-an… he totally took it that much faster!” These people are simpletons. Leave them. There’s no hope for them now.
But if you’re really lucky, then you know how to write a heavy metal song with some groove, with some class, and with some S-T-Y-L-E style. It’s blues on a coke binge, it’s the shit that haunts potential Hell’s Angels away from joining, and it makes you want to punch whoever is nearest you with your foot. It may not be a productive expenditure of time, and it may not be particularly enlightened or utilitarian, but at least it’s cathartic. Too bad for most metal heads that no matter how much stress and rage you release, it quickly fills back up and needs to be shunted like cerebrospinal fluid, as often as possible. Damn Sisyphus.
These people take German classes in high school, despite the fact that Spanish is much easier and French has all the hot chicks, because they have to understand the fucking music they listen to every day after school. Then they realize that their bands are actually saying something like, “Eat a fucking muffin, eat a mother-fucking muffin!” Then they go so far as to translate Yellow Submarine into ze deutche, just in case they ever need to know it. Actually, that was pretty cool. And if you add a symphony to back you up, hey, more power to your power chord. You just hired a shitload of people to basically do something that they’ve been doing since high school, which is play something ‘Pops.’
You can make any metal band you want, just either name it something that sounds bad ass but really doesn’t mean anything abrasive, like Bonespoon, or Gloomcult, or something that has to do with hating God, like Jesus Killin’ Sombrero Hat.
Of course, for all of these metal songs, intersperse lower quality audio of quotes from horror movies throughout. And if you have just a bunch of little metal songs of about the same pacing, and don’t know what to do them, it’s okay, just throw them together, and smooth transitions by interrupting each one with some guy yelling incoherently a capella. “Re Rolfmrn Risrts Ransrvrnya Reetrn Rocolrat Mrffrns!”
And if you’re just really hard without actually crossing into metal territory because you also want to get onto TRL, then prepare yourselves, boys, to be the car commercial background music of the future!
And of course there’s the Arena Rock. It’s so glam it’s glamtastic! So much crystal Tinkerbell sparkle dust in your skin that no amount of Neutrogena is going to rip that shit out. Your blackheads are fucking confetti. You have to wear a wig, and that looks like new fucking steel wool. And you know why they’re called arena rock? Because they have to play in an arena to be appreciated, which means that they have to have an image, which means they have to have mass appeal, which means that the studio execs pick who you are, which means that Pepsi has to back you for your tour, which means that it’s not selling out, its all part of the arena life. You’re a matador with more flair and less threat.
Yes, and the bands with thick slap bass, or perhaps with some type of funky funky groovy jazzy string bass, worn like an accent on a foreign guy driving your taxi. Distract from the song? Hell, this would distract you from your cholera. It doesn’t even matter what everybody else plays or sings when the bass is that funky, that loose, and this has been proven again and again with purposefully chaotic chord progressions and random lyrics about vaginas and banjos and racecar drivers.
And if they rap while they do it, all the better! Nothing makes me want to slap a slap bassist more than if he’s trying to rap!
And whatever the hell it is that U2 has been doing for the past twenty years, they’re doing it just fine by themselves, STOP TRYING TO DO THAT!
Let’s not forget the so-called Jam Band, the easily marketable, four different album covers for your purchasing pleasure, fun on wheels, that is, on tour, in every college in the nation. Hell, they’re such a college staple they may replace Top Ramen. They have to sing live. They thrive on it. It gets to the point where you prefer the poor audio of a live concert bootleg with idiot waves of fans cheering throughout, to the studio version that came out the exact same time and had the benefit of professional audio technicians. Fine! Download your precious little bootleg MP3s, you’re just going to buy them again with album art and a little pamphlet inside with band info, when the band releases the bootleg themselves four moths later in a COMPREHENSIVE set, which defeats the purpose of a BOOTLEG, now, doesn’t it?
Break out the ganja, that guy in the back has a tam-bo-reen!
You know what, Jerry Garcia is dead, he isn’t coming back, and the sooner you get used to it the happier we’ll all be. Seriously, you can listen to virtually anything while rolling a joint and in the end you get the same feeling.
They like to sing about how happy they are that the girl they like is hanging out with them in a field, or something, or otherwise how sad they are that they girl they like isn’t hanging out with them in a field. As if the girl even likes hanging out in fields to begin with! Why sing about a girl? And why does everything have to pull at our heart strings? Heels closely followed upon, in each album, by the relief of a fun, bouncy, and quixotic track. You end by saying, “Oh, those boys…” They have to make you laugh a little, then make you cry a lot, then laugh again in the end. If I want this sort of emotional duress I’ll watch a romantic comedy. Jam out, get a keg with your college buddies and then reveal to them that guys can, in fact, be sensitive souls as well.
And if you go to see that band in concert, and they sing that very personal and tear jerking song, the lead singer probably increasing the intimacy of the situation by sitting on a stool, NO, he is not singing that song directly to you. In fact, despite what they want you to think, think about it and you’ll realize later that, no, this song has very little to do with your life at all.
It’s like those artists that rely on their poetic grace to deliver a concept or idea. You know what, in all honesty, if your song isn’t going to mean jack shit to me without lyrics, it probably isn’t going to mean much with them.
And if you’re going to jam out like an ‘unrehearsed’ blues session on stage, don’t throw your fucking harmonica to me when you finish each song. I don’t want that shit, its been in your mouth. You do it once, and you’re going to clock somebody in the eye with a little chunk of metal. You do it enough times, it’s a class action lawsuit, and then somebody’s doing a documentary on your dumb ass.
And who invented the term ‘stoner rock?’ Because my theory is that it was a narc. What are these people stoned on, exactly, because if its something that makes them want to hit two notes over and over for three minutes, and make those two notes REALLY hardcore, then that pharmacist needs to be fired. When the rest of the band finally does join in, you’re already asleep! In fact, it sucks because it wakes you back up just as you WERE falling asleep! Just because you’re a badass doesn’t mean I have to buy your CD. How much have you set on fire this week, Mr. Dangerous?
You know what ISN’T hardcore? Anymore? Punk rock. Fuck them, I don’t care how growling you make your voice, I don’t care how many guitar strings you broke during rehearsal or how many times your bassist fell down drunk at the show you had inside your local CD store, and he kept playing. Man, I bet the administrator of your myspace fan group had a lot to say about that! You are not hard core. You think you are, but you don’t scare anyone. Sure, your album covers look like they should be grind core covers, with half-naked girls getting raped by zombies with huge but flaccid organs, and sure your road shows make Tom Savini hard, but who the fuck cares? You are just steps above ska. A horn section and nobody would take you seriously ever again. People will say, no matter how Halloween costumed you get, covered in blood, they’ll say, “Gee, I hope they do a ska cover of some Beatles songs.”
And my message to the ska bands, I don’t care how much pot you smoke, if you do, and I don’t care how great it is that you don’t, if you don’t. Nobody likes a braggart.
Which is still better than the types of punk rock bands who don’t seem to remember that time is moving around them. They still want their poster art to look like RatFink, they still think they’re going to get zinged by Beavis and Butthead on Friday night on MTV, and that they can play Buddy Holly style and still get props.
Look, if I can’t skateboard to it, it shouldn’t even exist, and by skateboard I mean play Tony Hawk Pro Skater.
And now punk rockers just go to buy all their buttons at Hot Topic, all the punk girls look the same, buy the same hair dyes, and coordinate which black-and-some-other-colored striped socks they’ll wear TODAY! The musicians wear eyeliner, which creeps me the fuck out because I thought punk rockers were supposed to beat up fags, not make out with them and break the news to your conservative father the next day. I thought punk rockers had spiky leather jackets, and produced their own hair gel out of their foreheads, then took baseball bats Clockwork Orange style and beat the shit out of people different than them, but no! It’s like when the Coyote finally caught the Roadrunner and didn’t know what to do with him. That’s called a cop-out, friends. And I feel cheated.
And by the way, your symbolism? Great! Now, when you say ‘America’ and then ‘Sucks’ what exactly are you trying to say there?
Hey, you want a successful punk rock band, just make them Irish. And everybody’s a little Irish when they’re drunk! And everyone’s a little drunk when they’re punk.
And what does alternative mean anymore? Popular? Because that’s what it sounds like! Sure, there are some artists with actual talent and wit floating around in there like little pieces of fruit suspended in JELL-O, but forget about any radio play, and if you don’t produce your own music video in your buddy’s basement, you don’t get one.
No, sing about some hypothetical woman or some situation involving a sad person. You think you’re frustrated with life? Drawing some hatred of life, the universe, and everything from the days of grunge! Get a fucking job, graduate high school, and move out of your parent’s basement. Then we’ll talk. You are not James Taylor, stop pretending like you’re going to impact me like he does.
What’s that you say? My karma is bad, and apparently they have police for that now? Uh-oh!
Look, if you have it so fucking bad off, then why are you making a million fucking dollars?
Of course, I had to do it, I had to get around to pop. It’s unavoidable. The pop divas who sing through their noses, put their lips way too close to the microphone in an attempt to be sexy, (both on the recording and in the videos), and can’t seem to get enough dick no matter how many drooling idiots would line up in an instant if anyone but women and gay men actually bought your CD.
I’m not even going to get into the whole boy bands situation, as it’s overdone, I’m above that, and I’ve come to accept them into the ever-growing list of oxymorons like military intelligence and business ethics.
But that’s not to say that you can’t use instruments in a popular MTV-worthy song that will get you onto a top 40 and every third song on the radio, it just means that in order to do so it has to be ridiculously catchy, bouncy, and devoid of any lyrics that might actually mean something, even one thing, to the people who listen to it and learn the words without even realizing that that’s what they’re doing, though ignorance is no excuse.
Can anyone say ‘sell out while the selling is good?’
It’s all the same song anyways, and its supposed the be the song you and your high school girlfriend share together. Yay! You’ll be together forever, and not like most people who just say that, but for real because you really love each other for real on this one. Seriously. Soon, that song will be history, archaic, and you’ll hear it years later and say, “Jesus, haven’t thought of that song in years, didn’t I used to date some girl that liked this song or something?”
But it doesn’t matter, because it’s all going to be remixed anyhow. Fuck. That.
And if you’re a band that has come to exist solely so you can provide good and inspirational fodder for movie soundtracks, kill yourself with a toaster in your bathtub. You really don’t want to be remembered as ‘that band from the really kick ass soundtrack of that movie that ended up sucking, you know, the song that played during the credits, so we all basically heard ten seconds of it.’
What the fuck happened to the African American arts in this country? So you produced jazz and then followed it up with the blues as the two greatest achievements to original American art forms and then, what, got tired and quit? Soul music now sucks! James Brown would be spinning in his grave if he were dead, which, according to the techno people, he already is.
I don’t care what anyone says, acid jazz and jazz fusion are the same goddamned thing!
Soul music consists now of bodies telling people ‘yes’, which is exactly when you listen to your mind, which is telling you ‘no, for the sweet love of Pete, no.’ You know better. It’s that unnecessary drain that gives nothing to the advancement of society, and the R&B groups with two or three or more girls of soul, repeating the same ‘oohs’ into the mic and make most of their money from the fact that they’re wearing skimpy dresses in the videos. What are you saying? Nothing! it’s the modern and intellectual equivalent of Doo Wop!
And don’t give me this R&B bullshit whining and self-serving at the same time. Let me stab you with a fucking jewel case, you narcissist prick who can get any lady he wants and probably just to never call them again. If I kill you softly with my song, all the better.
You certainly aren’t moving me much, except to my local Mo-Gear.
Who is this classic rocker, from the days of bygone, coming back with rap artists, R&B singers, emo rock guitarists, all paired up to save this burning out Phoenix because his agents told him to appeal to a younger audience? And somber lyrics to serious issues they’ve come across in their later years, after the drug-addledness had worn off. Is this soft rock? Adult contemporary? Fuck-all! I do not need you in some highly soft-filtered video where your dress shirt is suddenly open and your hair is whipping wildly in the wind, telling me about aborted babies and motherless children. I don’t care, and if I did, I’d send them pennies a day by sponsoring them and getting credit in a newsletter! The only thing Adult Contemporary is good for is to pipe in at Wendy’s so you can finish your Triple cheeseburger in peace. At least then I can drown it out with the sound of slurping on an empty drink cup.
Die. Die already. You have diabetes, arthritis, and wear adult diapers. You may feel like you’re changing with the times, but you’re not. You’re older, and you have no idea what you’re doing. It’s like watching somebody over fifty try to text message. It all ends in tears.
The exact opposite of which, is the group of younger kids, desperately trying to keep some older genre of music alive, like punk rock, or southern rock, or surf rock. Let it go! Surfers don’t even listen to surf rock anymore! The only good thing about your albums are that there isn’t some insipid little twerp trying to bog me down with ‘lyrics!’
Speaking of lyrics, what of the so-called lyrical prodigies, these rappers delights? Rap artists, whom I refuse to refer to as musicians of any kind, unless they show to me that they actually do know any instruments, that just rip off in ‘homage’ some past melody. Yeah, great, you can ‘sample!’ That would actually mean something if you were spinning records live for me in a show, and not in the safety of a controlled studio environment. Push a fucking button. Go home. Oh, you happened to dust off “Strange Days” by the Doors? Whoopty-fucking-doo. If you want to do your own song, do your own song, if you want to do a cover, do a cover. Fuck this in-between shit. Your message either stands on its own or it doesn’t need to be said. Prop it up on the message of previous artists, and loses its flavor. As if your message is all that important. What’s that? You just need to tell me how you have lots of money… yes… and cars… yes… and bitches… okay, but you comes from the streets… yea… Original… AND pertinent! Hell, at least Sir-Mix-a-lot has a fucking sense of humor, you guys actually think that a song about Big Butts is good material! Go far, far underground, at least there you’ll find some artists willing to discuss domestic politics and theocracy, and most of them are making fun of your dumb ass. Yes, go far underground, and I will cover you with a fine layer of peat moss.
And white rappers? Fuck that. It’s stupid and you know it. This is the place where you aren’t the top of the game. Get into business, politics, or real estate, where you have the advantage on the African American community because of poor business ethics. You’re ineffective and everyone is really just laughing at you. You’re the Larry Byrd of the hip hop industry. “Informer” by Snow ruined it for you in 1993, so just let it die gracefully, and not after its too late to do so like Ronald Reagan.
Unless you’re going to be addressing five separate boroughs, then that’s important shit, right there. I’m glad you were made the designated voice to the five boroughs. Jesus, we needed that.
And most of the freestyle I hear is shit! You have one shot, are you going to take it? Or are you going to spend your fifteen minutes on Star Search bitching about how the other guy has no control of verse or rhyme. Yeah, that makes you clever. That, and when you record in your bathroom, it sounds– like you recorded– IN YOUR MOTHER FUCKING BATHROOM!
Do you remember when Gangsta meant that artists were decrying the soldier lifestyle? Remember when they freestyled about how stupid it is to get caught up in all that shit, over some trifling’ shit? Yeah, well I also remember that Scarface was a cautionary tale, not something to be followed. Hey, sure, go buy a gun and kill each other, I won’t have to deal with you. I only wish the white people had something to reduce their numbers a bit.
Instead I have to hear their fucking country music, where it’s the same two songs over and over, generic female vocalist country song, and generic male artist country song, and they play it on Country 1-0-whatever point seven FM, your place for country VARIETY! You know none of these people have ever even heard of Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. The only one that knows who Hank Williams is, is Hank Williams, Jr.! And you know these women with the newest country hits aren’t authentic because they look fucking hot! Clearly they aren’t your typical trailer trash, and any girl who claims to be country better be inbred as fuck and have six webbed toes on each foot and unphotographable blue complexion. Here’s an idea for these artists, drop the fucking synthesizer you found left over from the 80’s, and pick up a fucking banjo!
At least then what you’ll do may have sucked, but it will have had a banjo in it.
I’m not really picky about music, just do whatever it is you want to do, and do it well. There will always be insufferable pricks like me to tell you why you aren’t good enough. You know better.
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