I always look forward to listening to the radio at work. It lets me keep in touch with what the kids are up to these days. You know: Cruisin’ round town with the windows down, shakin’ all ‘round to the stereo sound... that kind of thing. But more often than not, I come home with a brand new reason to loathe the music industry
What the hell does Beyonce think she’s pulling? Who the hell produced that fucking track? And why do my fingers smell like Cheezels? Those are the worst fucking samples laid over a shitty midi scroll I have ever heard. And that says a lot considering that the studio course I did was headed by an ageing disco drummer from England, who smelled a little like refridgerated pork chops. I mean, whoever programmed Work it Out was in serious need of a sense of god-damned rhythm. Biatch.
There also seems to be a growing (though ever-present) trend towards running really old songs through the dance-track-maker. Nothing is safe from their phat beats and noise-gated synths. It’s madness, and suddenly hearing that baby, you’re all that I want when I’m lying here in your arms doesn’t sound half as sincere. Hearing that you’re a bitch, girl and that you can rely on the old man’s money from some kind of jiggy-with-it home boy inspires me to kill myself, and maybe take others with me. Why can’t these losers write some original music? Why can’t they write some original lyrics to go with their original music?
I mean, I sure could use a vacation from this bullshit three ring circus sideshow of freaks here in this hopeless fucking hole we call LA. That’s for sure.