By Kloghole
It has been a rather uninteresting musical year for me. One thing that I did recently, out of morbid curiosity, was to watch the Netflix documentary on Nickelback. It was about as uninspiring as Nickelback. They were portrayed as pretty approachable fellows, but the “controversy” over people hating Nickelback was only superficially analyzed despite the trailer anchoring it as the keystone of the documentary.
What struck me about the band members’ pondering of the hate they encountered is their complete obliviousness (and the documentary as well) to the fact that music can be popular and still suck. That is a little strong, but popularity and talent, musicianship, or artistic depth are not synonymous. To salve their wounded egos, they fall back on the records sold, awards, and radio play.
What was intentionally avoided is that popularity and mundane are nearly equivalent whether it be music, retail stores, or food.
Let me put it this way. If someone tried to argue that Dairy Queen soft serve is the best ice cream out there, people would shake their heads in derision. No doubt it sells, and I ate enough of it in my day, however people have no fucking problem arguing their vanilla soft serve music is fucking great.
The banality and formulaic approach is exactly what makes them popular. For the members of Nickelback to not see that amazes me.
Here is the problem I have with Nickelback, Taylor Swift, and their ilk. It is not that they “suck,” so much that their admirers try to argue that they are incredible artists, etc. They are not. At least they are not more talented than others who are less uninspired in their craft. Sure, they are obviously popular, and many folks find these artists meaningful to them, but please stop trying to argue mashed potatoes are better than shiro wat. I love mashed potatoes, but they are not culinarily complex by any means. I would look like a fucking idiot if I tried to go on and on about how fucking complex and deep the art of making mashed potatoes is and how it is the best food ever. I would look like an even bigger fucking idiot if I got all bent out of shape with folks who say mashed potatoes suck, or worse yet, did a documentary defending how fucking great mashed potatoes are.
So, people are fucking clueless who do not get why “popular” artists suck. Wake the fuck up. You like shit music. Get over it. News flash, I like my share of shit music (shallow, enjoyable, competent musicians) too, but I do not try to say that it is the best fucking thing out there. It’s not, but that is okay.
This brings me to the next “grievance” I have. In the past, perhaps I was deluded, but I felt as though there was a clear distinction between people who listen to popular music and those who listen to underground music. Popular music was enjoyed by “popular” people, i.e., conceited, fucking, privileged assholes. I am not sure if it was ever true, but most things that I have ever really liked have been marred with assholes who also like the same thing. Assholes seem to be dropping out of the trees like leaves on a blustery fall day. Not only have people completely fucking forgot how to drive, I was recently treated to an especially annoying trip through Costco where people pushed around their carts like they all had life-threatening brain injuries. Apparently, moving down the aisle to one side or another is too difficult to manage. They were darting around the main aisle like ping pong balls in a tile bathroom.
We live in an era when assholery is celebrated, elevated, and even elected. There are very few arenas where I can avoid fucking stupidity of incomprehensible dimensions. Seriously, this era will be embodied by Anthony Fauci’s facepalm. For all of us who have four firing neurons or more, I am daily stunned by the sheer ignorance. I have two retreats from this onslaught of imbecility, the vegan Tea Shop (which is closing soon) and the record store. My visits to the record store had been very intermittent until recently.
Earlier in the year, I picked up a couple of extended discs. The first was a remastered version of Whitesnake’s Slide It In UK and U.S. release. Since I liked the bluesy early Whitesnake with Mickey Moody and Bernie Mardsen, I wanted to finally get a listen to the earlier version. It was enjoyable, but like pretty much everything else, I think there was a newer remastered version I spotted a few weeks later. The other disc was Geoff Tate’s Frequency Unknown, “FU” to the rest of the band. Queensryche’s Operation Mindcrime and Rage for Order are still among my faves. I could not pull the trigger on the tickets to the Queensryche tour playing the EP and Warning in their entirety - just too expensive for my budget right now. Frequency Unknown’s extra disc was largely unnecessary releases of previous material or reimagined versions of old hits.
After work, my partner stumbled upon a treasure trove of used discs from someone who traded in their Iron Maiden, Bruce Dickinson, and Blue Oyster Cult collections. There were some others in there like Forbidden, Sepultura, and Metal Church. After working my way through this expansive collection, I did add to my Venom and Iron Maiden related catalog. I felt a little melancholy working through someone’s discarded discography. In addition to the Sepultura and Metal Church, there were some burned copies of singles from Iron Maiden and Bruce Dickinson. I grabbed more than I could afford, and then went back when, surprise, the burned discs skipped mercilessly. I left with another stack that was out of my budget. In the pile, I found some Gordon Lightfoot and a number of Blue Rodeo releases. There were some very pricey CDs of Mason Profitt that I left in the store hoping to win the lottery so I could pick them up later.
Overall, this year was generally better than those recently, but I have had little time for music. I tend to lean heavily on James McMurtry and similar artists. I vacillate these with thrash metal. For all my bluster, music is one escape from the lunacy. If you are hurt by people like me shitting on your musical choices, join the club, grow a pair (of your choice), and move on. I still love you, just not your musical choices. I hope you could say the same about me.
Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers.
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