A Dull New Redux

One do get around. Contrary to what some may think, I do occasionally leave my Ivory Tower and co-mingle with the masses – most notably at 5:55 A.M. when I leave home to catch my bus to the office where I work. On most days, I leave the office at 3:30 P.M. and return home via the Metro. Twice a week or thereabouts, George gives me a lift home from work thus sparing me from the lunacy of the Metro commute. In addition to the convenience, I also get to take care of errands and other such delights. Moreover, I am frequently exposed to ‘new’ music.

On Tuesday, as we were winding our way through the traffic, a radio deejay, (I can’t remember who, nor can I determine why he was hired as a deejay as he had the diction of a warthog with a mouthful of marbles… Take that, Demosthenes!), mumbled something about a ‘new’ song titled ‘Why’.

Already bored with the repetitious and utterly incoherent dreck that passes for music, specifically ‘club’ music, whatever the hell that may be, music to that makes you want to club people, perhaps? I don’t know… Anyway, after suffering in silence while someone grizzled on about being taken to the clouds way up high or getting high or hell, who knows, this deejay introduced us to this supposedly new and exciting song by one of the nameless horde of au courant deejays who appeal to the throngs of people whose taste have been subverted by years of sitting in front of the television. Or eating mucilage — the effect is the same. These haute artistes of music, rather than produce their own music, apparently enjoy great fame and presumably income by taking the lyrics and vestiges of the music (crafted by a much better lyricist and songwriter) and adding distortion, an annoying and repetitive bass line, and finding a nameless shrill and incoherent woman to mangle the original song rather like a pack of hyenas feasting on an unfortunate dik-dik. They then, presumably, sit back from exhaustion and wipe the sweat from their brow. All of this travail in the name of Music and Art.

So after a breathless panegyric about this song and how exciting and new it was, he pressed play and wandered off to go have a coffee or play footsy with the janitor. With something less than anticipation, I sat hunched in the passenger seat waiting to be assailed with new.

Imagine my surprise when new was nothing more than an exceptionally meretricious remix of Annie Lennox’s song, ‘Why’.

Appalled at the temerity of this peddler of shlock, I listened for a few moments in the hope that it was all a ghastly dream. The original Lennox song released on the album Diva in May of 1992 is a poignant and bittersweet reflection the breakdown of communication and consequently a relationship. The entire album was a departure from Lennox’s previous work with the Eurythmics; however, Lennox lost none of her perspicacity.

Now, before I continue much further, let me address several points.

This is not a screed against cover artists per se. There are many instances where cover artists have brought something new to the work by their interpretation. One of these would be Siouxsie and the Banshee’s cover of the Beatles’ song “Dear Prudence”. There are others, but let us not get bogged down by this cavil.

Moreover, I am not disparaging groups such as the avant-garde Ladytron or Fischerspooner. They are not engaged in the manufacture of pabulum. Their work is not derivative. Nor is their entire oeuvre dross manufactured with a minimum of thought or creative effort, if one can indeed call the dreck produced (I refuse to use the word ‘create’) by these hacks creative.

Furthermore, I am not casting nasturtiums at genuine deejays like Felix da Housecat or others who explore new concepts in music and are genuinely creative. My criticisms are reserved for those who ride on the coat-tails of their betters and push their tawdry wares on the gullible and unsuspecting.

Ask yourself what do these so-called artists produce that is of any merit?

Absolutely nothing, rather than face the daunting challenge of doing something innovative, these cretins subscribe to a theory similar in nature and form to that of the ghastly auteur theory of directing — they are the authors of this work. It is their sublime talent that makes it worth viewing/hearing. What utter poppycock! Lennox’s original was greater by far. Hell, we’re not talking time zones here, kiddos, we’re talking light years.

So what the hell does all this matter?

By rights, this crap should be given its just deserts and treated accordingly — with contempt — however, it identifies an underlying problem.

It matters because it is another example of how mindless the masses have become.

Please ignore the screams of angst from those who ardently protest the label mindless.

Yes, people, the masses have become mindless. They accept penny dreadful fiction as the apex of literary achievement; these same people gorge themselves on McDonald’s “hamburgers” and are sated, they buy into such quackery as is promoted on those sublime salons of rationalism and critical thinking called daytime talk shows, these folks sat in line and in the suffocating boxes called cinemas to watch the inane Star Wars prequels and thought that the pisher of the decade, Peter Jackson, was a wondrous director for his hatchet-job on Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. These, too, are the people who think that astrology is real in a pitiful attempt to shirk responsibility for their lives. It is this same lot who buy “fantasy” art featuring disproportionate women in clothing that would be ill-suited for leaving the house. And presumably, their parents are the cretins who collect Hummel figurines and buy those daubs of Thomas Kinkade.

They buy all this because they’ve been told to do so by suave marketing and the dreadful fear of being considered… elitist. Egalitarianism has gone much too far. Not everything is created equal. Judith Krantz is certainly not of the same caliber as Dorothy Parker. Kinkade’s messes don’t even compare to Titian or Rembrandt. An ‘Healthy Choice’ (an illiteracy, for those of you that care) microwaveable dinner is not the same as even the most simple pasta puttanesca. The list is endless.

So tonight, turn off the boob tube, go buy a decent bottle of plonk — no, Carlo Rossi doesn’t count, you dunderhead — make some pasta puttanesca, and talk with your lover or your roommate about things that matter. Forget about bills and other tiresome subjects for an hour or two. Or read a good book. I’ll even go so far as to suggest a couple. Try P.G. Wodehouse’s The Cat-nappers, if you’re feeling in need of a laugh. Or Austen’s Mansfield Park should you desire something meatier. Or if you want a combination of both, I heartily recommend to you Dickens' David Copperfield. I’ll even lend you my copy. Aren’t I just a swell guy? Anyway, grab your lover, or your book, and watch the sun set, enjoy the food and the wine, and savor life.

Don’t argue, just do it. You’ll thank me later.

Have a great weekend.