Times are hard. In fact, times are always fucking hard. People are fighting for their side hustles because the traditional work your way up is fucking miserable. Don’t even get at me with this liking your job bullshit. Your job, if you have one, sucks. It’s ruining your life but that’s the deal. Ruin your life doing some stupid capitalist bullshit making some cracka even richer while your physical and psychological health deteriorates and the ocean tides ebb and flow and trees grow and leaves change your children grow up your parents die and you miss the whole show so you could produce the products that ensure your destruction through the climate holocaust.
So make music. Make vapor wave. Be a rapper. Play jazz. Learn to DJ. Stick a microphone out the window and make field recordings and ambient. I’ll love you for it. I’ll review your efforts and shower you with praise. I’ll understand it better than you do. But here’s the rub: I’m not paying you a goddamn thing. I don’t give a fuck. Missing songs on your BandCamp page lol. I’m not buying your fucking record. Bitch you’re trying to sell ice to an Eskimo. I don’t give a fuck if your Neil Fucking Joni Mitchell Young. There millions and millions of other things. Everyday I’ll listen to shit I ain’t never heard before that’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant. It’s nonstop musical manna from heaven.
My charity of choice is Doctors Without Borders. Not musicians who don’t want to work. Fuck man, I don’t want to work either. Ain’t nobody want to work. I feel your pain but that’s all you get. That and a review that nobody fucking reads so who gives a fuck.
Play live. Tour.
Gas prices. Inflation. Supply chain horror stories. Corporate greedy no pay bullshit venues. Psychotic prices for auto repair. Covid. Not having health insurance. And me not wanting to even go out. Everything is twice the hassle these days. It sucks out there and mainly because the venues today are miserable no fun uncomfortable machines. Rules galore. Nostalgia or not, in clubs back in the day we did whatever we wanted. Now it’s like they all got these goon squad Nazis. No smoking. No taking your clothes off. No sex on the dance floor. No sitting with your back against the wall during the warm up band you’ve never heard. Band is on late. Five more hours of standing after standing all day at work and up at ‘em tomorrow for another stand-a-thon. I honestly feel like you should come to my crib and entertain me here. Or do something. Show on the beach or in the dessert. And play on stage. A high stage so I can see you. Fucking bands not using the stage. Fuck you. I came out to SEE a band not the back of some fuckhead’s head.
Those old blues and jazz guys risked their life to tour. And the clubs were fun wild and free. And sexual. They forged ahead through racist America. They faced violence. Theft. Cancelled shows. Really, it’s probably just as crazy now but goddamn that’s what you got to do.
As fans we don’t need to buy the merch. We need to provide or at least insist on better venues. Not this corporate asssucking bullshit. House shows. Back yard shows. Shows in the woods. Or wherever out in nature. Band takes the door. All of it. Also, shut the fuck up. Maybe all this equipment and the energy to run it needs to be sacrificed. Can you shut your fucking mouth for an acoustic guitar? People who talk during shows need their asses kicked with brutality. For real. Just shut up. Don’t fucking talk.
Warmth Highest 