It’s easier than ever to become a creative artist, and yet what we have on offer is largely disposable ‘toonz’ and fast food music. Take for example Coldplay. They could be said to be the modern equivalent of Pink Floyd—four wacky British guys with quirky songs and videos, catchy tunes with some soulful content. Their music is not bad compared to itself, but roll back to 1975 and look at Pink Floyd. Incredible live shows, deep philosophical soul searching lyrics, ground breaking instrumentals and solos, captivating concept albums that dig deep into the human condition. Comparing Coldplay with Pink Floyd is like comparing Diet Coke with 12-year-old single malt.
At the same time that Floyd were plying their trade, we also had harder and heavier Led Zeppelin. Intense riffs, original production, amazing lyrics, 10-minute master pieces. Everyone copies them, but nothing compares. Jay-Z or Kanye could be said to be the modern equivalent of Bob Marley, but their offerings—although reasonable—are feeble in comparison, as is their personal artistic ethos, that largely revolves around attention whoring, money grubbing and media hype.
The Corporate Stranglehold?
Back in the day, the music industry was controlled by a few major labels that could pick and choose what artists they released. Yet the mass of amazing music being released and rising into mainstream perception was extraordinary. Today anyone can download some music software to their laptop, and produce an album in the comfort of their own home at zero cost, using professional tools they could only dream of 30-40 years ago. They can upload it to sites like Youtube, iTunes, Facebook, reaching an underground audience at zero cost. With internet radio stations and cable channels running 24/7, commercial airplay is far easier. You can shoot a music video on an iphone in 1080HD, whereas just 10 years ago, you’d be shooting on 35mm at $2000 per minute shot and $1000 a day camera rental.
Arguments are made that the media and corporations have a stranglehold on creative art and yet nothing could be further from the truth. On the other hand, in the 60s, 70s and 80s, the opposite was the case. A struggling band was absolutely reliant upon mainstream labels, not only to promote their material but invest huge sums of money in their production costs. Without a six figure recording budget, bands had to play live to hear their own album.
In 1986, Metallica’s debut album on an indie label (Megaforce Records) was supposed to be called “Metal Up Your Ass”, but the record label vetoed the name, resulting in it being called Kill ‘em All, in reference to wanting to kill all the record companies. The name is hardly offensive by modern standards, but we can immediately see the restraints that artists had to deal with, until the digital age began a decade ago.
So where did all the art go?
Strangely there is precious little music released today that has any depth, quality, or originality to it. It’s not that corporations are suppressing good artists, or that it’s impossibly expensive to get ahead in the creative world—it’s that artists are producing shit and the general public is lovin’ it. Just when you’d think it couldn’t get any worse than Britney Spears, along comes a dozen copy cats from Kesha to Katy Perry. Then Miley Cyrus drags popular music straight into the whore house.
The only way to create any more sensation and attention grabbing would be for her to start dildoing herself live on stage, Bangkok style. How long will it be before a chic makes herself squirt on the audience, to leverage outrage and promote her new single? Perhaps Jim Morrison of the Doors was right when he pulled out his penis on stage, inciting a riot by telling the crowd they we’re all morons. Bob Marley puts it well:
No sun will shine in my day today
The high yellow moon, won’t come out to play
I said darkness has covered my light,
And has changed my day into night,
Where is the love to be found,
Will someone tell me because life, sweet life must be somewhere to be found,
Instead of Concrete Jungle, illusion, confusion,
Concrete Jungle .No chains around my feet, but I’m not free
I know I am bound here in captivity
And I’ve never known happiness, and I’ve never known sweet caresses
Still, I’ll be always laughing like a clown
Won’t someone help me?
Cause, sweet life, I’ve got to pick myself from off the ground, yeah
In this here concrete jungle.
Performing Seals
You cannot call performers like Rihanna, Britney, Gaga, etc. artists in the true sense of the word. They are neither suffering for their art, nor conveying any kind of lasting message about the human condition. They are mere circus animals trotting out neat little ditties that come and go and need constant replacement. You can never replace The Doors, Floyd or Led Zep, anymore than you can replace Beethoven, for the simple fact that they produced real music—Soul Food as Bob Marley called it.
Artists had to make real sacrifice in the past to produce great material, but today you can just fire up a laptop and you are an instant singer/ song writer / producer, with the quality of a noodle soup packet. Dark Side of The Moon sold 50 million copies, remaining in the Billboard Top 100 for 741 weeks from 1973 to 1988. While Gangnam Style, the top clip on youtube gets a billion hits and the follow up flops.
It’s not only about artists copying each other in a mad race for pseudo art and commercial success—it’s the general public thirsty to lap up the never ending stream of musical diarrhea. The popularity and success of shows like American Idol and X-Factor show exactly what the blue pill public craves.
Everyone Is A DJ
Today’s concept of a DJ is a commercialized distortion of what a real house DJ was. Nineties DJs were artists—it was nigh impossible to beat match on vinyl and limited pressing underground releases were tricky to get hold of. Modern DJs are nothing more than monkeys that press play on the machine, and wave their hands in the air. A real DJ took you on a journey, on a trip. He brought you up and down and moved your body and mind and as he carefully matched the next tune. The two blended together, one off moments in musical history were created. Today, while fiddling with a smart phone, you numb your ADHD with vodka or ecstasy and jiggle about like a baboon (and fuck like one after).
In the days when ecstasy first hit the streets, I recall clubs going until 9 or 10 am on Sunday until the owners, afraid to lose their licenses, had to call the police to cut the power. Never mind getting the crowd out—the DJ himself just wouldn’t stop. A party was a hedonistic, shamanic experience not to be missed. Today a party is a lame load of wannabes out to impress, waiting for something to happen, and then drifting home at 2am.
I was unlucky enough to have David Guetta play infront of an apartment I was staying in. After speed-loading a few CDs, the guy couldn’t get off stage fast enough. DJ? More like a piss take. Would you pay Mick Jagger $150 a ticket to watch him play CDs for 90 minutes?
Something has gone astray with our music. There is creativity in the movies and TV, but it’s a different medium that requires little input from the audience. We sit there like stunned dummies as the latest, greatest computer animation whirls in front of us, but we leave the cinema none the wiser, pacified and waiting for the next installment.
And the people bowed and prayed to the neon god they’d made
And the sign flashed its warning in the words that it was forming
And the sign said the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls, and whispered in the sounds of silence
Back in the day before there were a dozen screens in every room, we’d roll a couple of joints and sit back and listen to some Floyd or Led Zep. We’d conjure up our own imagery, we’d talk, discuss, philosophize about their content. We were alive. We were conscious. A concert, rave or club-night carried a sense of being a part of something. 500,000 people, including myself went to the show below. It was like a coming together of humanity to celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall. So many people showed up they didn’t even bother collecting tickets.
At New Year’s Eve 2014, I wound up at Disneyland (long story). After paying $100+ a pop, I’ve never seen a crowd of people more subdued. They stood in the rain for an hour before midnight, with barely a smile or a cheer, politely jostling each other in silence for a better vantage point; eyes glued on the Disney Castle, waiting for action time. The light show and fireworks were flawless; afterwards the people shuffled off home, like droids whose masters had flipped a switch. Could Simon and Garfunkel have been any more prophetic? NYE in San Quentin jail was probably more lively.
We love that numb state of being plugged into the Matrix. “Entertain me, entertain me!”It’s depressing but other than spiking the water supply with acid, I don’t have a solution to this problem. I will however shine a light on it and continue to be a torch bearer for hedonism and music/art that conjures up true feelings and embraces reality. Even artists like Banksy who try to shake up the masses are met with smiles and nods of acceptance and yet his audience just drifts off back to sleep.
Sending off a glancing kiss, to those who claim they know
Below the streets that steam and hiss,
The devil’s in his holeOh to sail away, To sandy lands and other days
Oh to touch the dream, Hides inside and never seen.Into the sun the south the north, at last the birds have flown
The shackles of commitment fell, In pieces on the groundOh to ride the wind, To tread the air above the din
Oh to laugh aloud, Dancing as we fought the crowdTo seek the man whose pointing hand, The giant step unfolds
With guidance from the curving path, That churns up into stoneIf one bell should ring, in celebration for a king
So fast the heart should beat, As proud the head with heavy feet.
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