More than this?

King Foo, (Dave Grohl) in a green T-Shirt.

In an era with so much pent up potential, why is it that struggling "Artists" cannot find adequate ghost writers? With so many people spending the greater part of a year alone with their thoughts, it would seem to me that there would be both a surplus silo of creative content, and a crippled coven of shitty artists in deep malaise seeking a new Muse to lift them out of incapacitated stupor. As we emerge from our Cheeto coated cave It dawns on me that there is a symbiosis here, which should have been well brokered, even a cottage business to introduce the under-equipped "popular class" who drive internet clicks, with the fully competent cloistered mousey clan, who write just fine. (For the Bernie's to sell the Elton's their next hit.) In Upside-down land This might have been the special sauce which should have protected us all from a headwater of sewerage breaching the bank of good taste. Put plainly, Today there is both nothing to watch, and nothing to listen to. The former being understandable because in the past 14 months nobody wanted to stand beside, (let alone stage kiss) a pathogenic Nicholas Cage... On any given movie set -- The latter seems unfathomable, because most music can be made with a MacBook, and a small mixing console. Any given film does require a few more willing bodies. In a void of anything authentic, it happens that we have all been watching shit, with our daylight-sensitive weary brains. We have been consuming, commenting, even recommending all the new re-runs & canned shit-shows which would never have breached daylight, were it not for Covid's cessation of the entire studio production apparatus.

I know that I am not alone in lamenting the consumable crap which should have better remained upon the shelf -- So I won't list every marginally shitty show I've watched ten minutes of, in hopes of some dismal improvement, only to find that even the Romanian overdubbed sci-fi crime dramas are pissy shit. Not because they are not compelling stories in their own right, but because they are basically the re-hashed Eastern euro-trash version of a shelved (Nicolas Cage) Western drama, which was stolen from the Better BBC version before, being retold in another language, with laughable and pornographic overdub of English voice actors, from an eastern bloc language school.

So the 2020's shortage of anything worthwhile in entertainment, bled into the 2021's black hole which successfully sucked any nutrients from our starved brains -- We are left with cushions coated in chip residue, the occasional cracker or crust, and more bottles and cans than the recycle bin can hold. This ritual we do ungracefully to fend off the penultimate awfulness, whilst we await daylight.
So, today, in celebration of the Summer Solstice, strengthened by your MRNA re-code, it's time to cast aside the blue glow of LED's For the Warmth of a glorious yellow sunshine.
To Quote Van Gogh in one letter to his brother Theo, " For want of a better word I can only call it yellow -- Pale Sulphur yellow, pale lemon gold, How beautiful Yellow is!..." So in complete contrast to what we know, there is this lovely light at the end of our cave, igloo, or tunnel..., It is best to begin your journey forward before you learn a foreign language by the  Netflix immersion method.
As a caution toward your blind thoughtlessness, and underexposed consciousness, I will assert what I find to be the talisman of what evil can come in a sort of "Ghost of Christmas Future", warning... Wipe your glasses, or better yet grab your far less chic Ray Bans, for here beware the ides of June.

If, upon this Solstice you should find yourself yet languishing in your cave hoisting hot pockets, and shaking the chip bag into your mouth like a baby bird -- Then what follows is quite literally the most outlandish defilement of our remaining filthy façade of fake cultivation -- What you will be left holding is The worst middle-school notebook scrawl, the most adolescent shit-story-board for bad lyricism. Whilst you were sleeping we've sent this "artist" to your dreams to deliver to you direct warning from his dumpster of reject writing. Your best reason to book a ticket, or host a party. You have been warned, but while you were in your virtual office, we've been waterboarded with this gibberish, and so here it goes:

​"I've been waiting on a war since I was young
Since I was a little boy with a toy gun
Never really wanted to be number one
Just wanted to love everyone

Is there more to this than that?
Is there more to this than that?
Is there more to this than that?
Is there more to this
More to this, more to this than
Just waiting on a war?
Just waiting on a war?

Every day waiting for the sky to fall
Big crash on a world that's so small
Just a boy with nowhere left to go
Fell in love with a voice on the radio

Is there more to this than that?
Is there more to this than that?
Is there more to this than that?
Is there more to this
More to this, more to this than
Just waiting on a war?
Just waiting on a war?"
-Foo Fighter Extraordinaire

Please select your preference:

A. “On what day did God create Dave Grohl?, and could be not have rested on that day too?”

B. “Shit Sandwich”.

I won't argue that a good concert is precisely what we all need right now, Complete with bathroom-stall make-out session, smuggled whisky, and psychedelics. But if entertainment as an escape, is useful for a well formed soul -- Then a great performance does not equivocate great songwriting. In fact great songs are not (necessarily) required for a solid rock show. A great concert can thereby be pulled off, with showmanship, stagecraft, smoke machines, and decibel's, (even if most of the tracks are crap). We can hereby all just agree to self medicate until they/them, "Play their fucking hit already"... But please sweet baby Jesus save us from this hideous plague which has infected our brains. This vacuous scourge has made it not only possible to create such trash, but to take a cold bath in it, and thus accept this spiky ball of shit to bind to our brains. It's not your fault if you find yourself singing along to Madonna's "Borderline" Because we are all desperate for Something, Anything..., and heck!, "Borderline" is a good track, even in an elevator.
But the 'King Foo'?... Wow!  when did "Borderline" became the breached border wall of quarantine, and why are we now forced to suffer the indignity of yet another junior-high notebook doodle, cum garage-band from that "Bearded Nirvana Drummer guy"?

You can do something before you slide so far down the slope that your friends catch you tapping your toe to this track.  Before they can no longer help you out of the muck... Just say no. Being desperate for the company of good music does not mean that we should so readily lift our skirts for just any track (with or without a toy gun in it) -- Lest it be from this guy,  This Song even smells like Fluorescent Lights and Blatz Beer, On-stage -- Hurling saliva droplets upon my 5th row VIP experience. 
"I've been waiting on a wristband, since I was young" -- And to cuddle 3000 awkward strangers in the mud for the first Rock Show in 16 months.  This has it's therapeutical advantages -- But, I'm not waiting on, "Smells Like Teen Spittle".

Play drums? Yes.
Form a Band? OK.
Be the front man if you wish -- But when you absolutely cannot conjure anything better than this banana hammock drivel, you need a friend to pick your next outfit. Stay home until you have something presentable.

Is there more to this than that? Fuck yes there is. It's called the back catalog by anyone, maybe even Nirvana.

To celebrate the summer solstice Open your Window Shades, Stretch, Vaccinate, Vacuum, Trade-up your TV for some Records. If you need some help with selections, phone a friend, or better yet have them over.  Because friends don't let friends listen to crap, or Loverboy. But if you want to place your speakers in your open window sill, and "Blast" the neighbors, and it has to be Loverboy, Fine! just don't let it be the aforementioned "boy with the toy gun".  Because well... Just Don't!  It's the longest Day of the year, and it's a Monday -- So don't waste 4 minutes and 34 Seconds of glorious sunlight with this track.

"Relax, relax, relax just a little pin-prick, there'll be no more Ahhhhh... But you may feel a little sick".

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