Too much man, too much too much…

Hello, chums…

Now, I’ve been out for the better part of the last week perusing the ‘best’ that the ‘alternative underground’ has to offer, rock wise.
The best isn’t good enough.
Why is it that every fat, lazy front person (even if they’re not fat, I’ll remember them as being spiritually obese, wheezing through the ether) has to shout out ‘Sydney!’ between or even during songs? Why are encores the status quo? When you can’t get the first forty five minutes right, does it not seem likely that the next fifteen minutes are going to dig you deeper into a hole that will soon be filled with praise from jerks who love you for your spiffy haircut and will forget your music the next time a sparkling ball of yarn rolls past?
Hell, I’m not just peeved with the performance angle, but as a mouthpiece for your best buddies (or business partners, I am not presuming that all bands operate under the blanket of love that we do – it’s cuddles and red wine every evening), shouldn’t these people be more careful about the neo-racist, homophobic tripe that they spout? Unless of course it turns out that each and every member of the band in question is an unrepentant bigot in which case, please confine your activites to internet chat rooms and Roman spas with your idiot friends.
Now, I understand that their is a market for bland and predictable music and that often this kind of thing is a stepping stone to something more soul pleasing; but there are also those audience members who will never look to the left and realize that there is more out there than mind numbing hooks and a pre-prescribed set of ‘dance’ moves.
Thank Joy, Genius and Hilarity that we got out of that pile of dung with our minds and bodies intact.

Yours in Brotherly Love,
W.H Monks

P.S.

Dillinger Escape Plan ruined my soul in the most pleasant way and Jaguar Love can play a house party in my forest shack any night of the week.

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