Taking it easy, tubing on the lazy river that winds through the ruins of music, the depleted rainforest. Remember its old architecture? Precise and perfect? Valuable… sacred even? Like a toilet, the greater its functionality, the greater was its value. At some point, someone turned that toilet upside down, then someone or some persons took a sledgehammer to that toilet. Now we shit where we eat; now we tube down our own piss stream. And it’s fun now that it’s “anything,” more fun than the old discipline required. No need to be persuasive. There are few listeners left, anyway, to rate the value. Music is subordinate to the theater, a shopping spree, google searches, heavy petting, fine dining, tubing, chewing gum. A fixture in total mall ambience. In its minor role, its intentions and arrangements are excusable, if not entirely ignored. With hardly a soul listening, and with little to no chance at financial compensation, the rules have lightened up. Musicians, no longer a guild, can do anything… anywhere… anytime. They are still jesters, inversions of how the rest of us operate, but they don’t receive an invitation to the King’s Court, as they once did. They wear swimming shorts and sunscreen, instead of clown paint and red noses, instead of leather jackets and hairspray. Their music sounds cuter, more relaxed than, say, Landed, less assaultive than No Trend, but, in general, just as irritating, and, oddly, as confrontational. Confrontational, that is, if anyone bothers to listen.
• Mumbles: https://musicmumbles.wordpress.com