The Sea With Black Ink

Music. Mankind’s greatest achievement, the crux of my existence; the affliction of my addiction; the decisive point of my decisions; the soundtrack for my adventures; the prospect for most of my plans; and the catalyst for my inspiration. That sentence right there is has no beginning and no end. And in there you have it, my music addiction, and I take it quite seriously.

From an early age, I was drilled in the ethics of ‘good’ music consumption; and I learned the value of quality lyrics before I really knew what to do with them. Whether it came through trial and error—my mother playing a gorgeous song on the piano quite flawlessly, all the while simultaneously singing out of tune as a disturbing overtone, OR through the wide assortment of my father’s Vinyl Collection, played regularly (which I have thus since acquired as my own)—the importance of music in the home was stated softly, yet certainly. And as an ode to the genre: before I was able to read, I was able to enjoy music…and just like many of us starry-eyed teenagers, I wanted to be a famous rock star when I grew up. And I probably could have been. Perhaps it might have blossomed in my years of Musical Theatre, perhaps it could of branched out from there if I had continued, got legitimate voice lessons, an agent, and thus joined the countless thralls of aspiring musicians. BUT, sometimes our dreams seem like this distant epitaph of our youth, far too out of reach to be realized, and in there you have it, in a nut shell, my present apathy toward a music career. Like so many, I just didn’t see a reality in it. When I look at the lifestyle of famous artists/musicians, I don’t really envy them all that much either. Fame seems to evoke this sense of disillusionment, escapist tendencies, and a complete disconnect with the realities of daily life that seems to alienate the most stealth and humble of individuals. While the charade seems appealing at times, I can probably put money on it; I’d be dead within 5 years. While I admire those with the courage to REALLY go for it, I have to critically take in the realities of being a ‘successful’ musician.
Perhaps if just half the world was as critical about what they put in their player as some of the people I know, there would be no place for the lack-luster artists, those who are conjointly, ironically, and suspiciously THE headlining, primary entertainers of the world. I.e. Christina, Britney, Justin, and all the ‘hot’ and contemporary Singles Artists that Top 40 Stations Spin out like a hot dog on a Weiner Reel at your local Tubby Dog Chain. (I don’t think it’s actually a chain). I love Britney and Justin, don’t get me wrong, and I will hereby state that I will hatefully, and grudgingly include Christina in their rank despite the fact that I am thoroughly convinced she is a walking STD, and I’d rather see her face as an add for a non-smoking, anti-cigarette, anti-breeding campaign that acknowledges that cigarettes cause people to make bad decisions, that may result in them looking like a plastic transsexual Shim with way too much clown make-up on. But…I suppose if Britney can change her hair, and Justin can date a woman for two years with the most gigantic mouth known to mankind (Aka: the black hole that is Cameron Diaz’s face) well, then I guess Christina can be a disgusting, ugly, obnoxious clown-whore. Whatever.
Nonetheless, clown-whore inclusive or not, within the vortex of everything music, and all those deemed ‘musical’, there is a place for all sorts of artists, genres and each to each a particular adherence to an unwritten code…mantra, whatever you want to call it. Just look around, music aligns people in dress, appearance, tastes and demeanor. It’s actually really messed up, but Music seems to effect all of our lives rather profoundly, and in the most unique, perplexing and obscure of ways. The culture of music is vast and daunting, and within it people aspire to specific roles, titles and occupations, all in the name of artisans worldwide. And though it could be widely disputed by the public sale of atrocious albums, and useless artists, music is not something that you can just record and manufacture onto a CD and sell for $21.99; and it certainly isn’t heavily marketed punk music infused with estrogen, metro-sexuality and Emo-freakishess, complete with a top hat, cane, eyeliner (o-kay, maybe the eyeliner), and a music video filmed in Sepia, aimed at teenagers with low self-esteem and a fetish for cutting themselves. I once heard Emo music defined as “much like Goth, much less dark, and much more Harry Potter”, and let me tell you, I’ve seen Harry Potter’s penis, and the fright I consequently experienced takes any bit of credibility out of that statement. But…before the penis, I would have agreed.
Seriously, that penis is the vein of my existence; and I choose to use the word ‘vein’ quite literally. And there you have it: Harry Potter’s penis, Beyonce, Christina Aguilera, Emo Kids…combined=a sure-fire recipe for my self-destruction.
I should have never exposed my weakness…

The song playing as I wrote this Post: “The Only Moment We Were Alone”, Explosions in the Sky. Thought it only appropriate to share: