Word Vomit #2

This is a stream of written prose that has not been edited since it was first written a few days ago. This one loosely rhymes, but loosely doesn’t either.

Tell a story explaining what I have done around the house and all that shit mother fucking done with the thing and the thing thing thing, walnut snap break, cotton, gyroid fencing, better waiting room furniture, tastefully buttoned shirts, carpet salesmen, dusty old books, the rolling stones, a broken record, a washerlady’s purse, a broken hip, a smashed up railway station, a silent whistle, a short-born teaser, a jealous rich-mun (blud) and a broken side nose. Worst than that there’s a shoved up handkerchief and some iron filings ingrained in the carpet, and nobody loves you no more, and the water begins to taste of lead and you start to feel it all go to your head and the procession of idiots flicker on the tv and you thank Christ-Almighty it’s a democracy. And then somebody speaks to you and you hear nothing at all, and the curtains are drawn to keep out the world and wrapped inside in a duvet you writhe and you squirm, all instead of doing and acting out what is that you yearn, but you’re lying in the duvet in front of yourself, the picture on the wall a glimmer of what you once dreamt. You would wish to be on stage in front of the crowd, singing your verses crafted to avow what is about life which you wish to infer to others who can understand, stand stupefied and reduced to murmur.  You want others to understand, to connect with them, show them yourself and in turn make them think of who they are.

Do this, and tread lightly with your words.

Word Vomit #1

A new series I’m calling word vomits. This was a stream of written prose that has not been edited at all since it was first written a few days ago.

To the bottom of the pit, the dark dark pit to the bottom of the pit, the dark dark pit, where devils met and there they sat and decided which was which and wat was wat and which was to do with Jonathons and Matthews and Chris’ and Georges and Tommy boys too, and all this time I never said that I even wanted to. And then the lies and the theives and the beggers and the jokers and the Christians and the stupid and the sick and the loved and the abdominals and the hopeless and the unlucky and the carpenters and the summer dress designers and the vets and the skiers and the starving and the blessed and the holy and the unholy and the powerful and the rich and the ignorant and the well-read and the committed and the lazy and the writers and the whole grain of it all makes your head want to explode sometimes from a compounding anxiety that so much of the world is here right now and happening before your very eyes, but mostly, in fact the vast vast vast amount of the things that are happening are nowhere near you.

A young woman lost her keys this morning on the way to work. She’d become distracted politely declining the advancement of a young verbally erratic man, who although handsome like a cherub, offered little promise of revere beyond his carefully arranged colour scheme of greys, blacks and a little gold (on his tacky ill-hanging chain). He asks her where she’s getting off, the woman replies that she’s ‘meeting her boyfriend’; a quickly dispatched riposte to the intended purpose of the question, as the youth is only trying to put his penis into any of the woman’s consented orifices.

Then at the same moment a spider 3 miles away is hit by a train after choosing to build its web in the space between two railway tracks, the spider was just being a spider and the train was just being a train, but there is a melancholic sadness evoked from the spider’s demise, pity derived from the spider’s lack of knowledge of the very notion of trains or railway tracks, and it is in this thought that it occurs that humans are really quite alone in possessing any knowledge at all of trains or the concept of train-ness as Plato would have see in his cave. But then in four days time, it will be seven years to the day that Miss Floyd got married and became Mrs Williams when she married her husband Pete. Their wedding was a low-key affair which was a good thing in the bride’s mother’s opinion as Pete couldn’t possibly have chosen a more run down looking reception hall if he’d tried, partly to do Pete’s modest salary and this being his 3rd marriage; the novelty of the thing was beginning to wear off. Paramount to the low-key setting of the wedding, however was Pete’s total disregard for self-imposed sentimentality, instead he believes that if you feel in love, you show it by being loving, not parading your families together, akin and derided from the ancient function of marriage to bind families together. Or to consolidate wealth for the working class, unconsciously marrying together small scraps of land acquired through a combination of hard labour and occasionally lucid gestures of generosity bestowed by nobles down the generations.

All of a sudden a mouse has been caught in a mouse trap long forgotten behind a dusty abandoned fridge. It will remain trapped there for more than 3 hours before silently dying and eventually adding its own atoms to the film of dust that clings to the abandoned furniture in the kitchen. Then a dog dies. A man wins the lottery. An old lady breaks her hip. A sand dune sheds a sheet of sand as a child rolls and plays. A woman is caught stealing money from her son’s room. A teacher fantasises at home about one of his teenage students. A curtain is woven in someone’s back garden. A magazine yellows beyond the legible in the sun. A barman drops a tray of cocktails and is forced to apologise to the drunk dick head who wasn’t looking where he was going. A police officer kicks a teenager in the head. A florist is kind with her time and helps a clueless husband arrange a bonnet for his wife’s birthday. A shower is cleaned the same time every week by Wendy who uses routine as her crutch. A prostitute corrupts her mind and soul, unable to face the shame of raising her children in poverty.  A banker sits at his desk and dreads heading home to his boring wife. A phone rings and no one answers. 10 babies are born at the same instant that 3 die.

Why you shouldn’t form a guitar band in 2017 in the UK: It’s madness

 

So you want to start a band. For one thing, you’d better love music for the sake of music rather than seeking fortune and fame, otherwise, you’ll be sorely disappointed. There are multiple reasons this:

A. People are no longer as interested in guitar bands. It’s not the 70s anymore, man. For a long time, local musicians would be a key part of a town’s entertainment. Before TV, the internet and the high volume of recorded music that we now enjoy, people would listen around the piano at the pub to hear their favourite songs. This is no longer the case, a phone with an internet connection will do this job for a venue more consistently and for far cheaper than a guy who plays piano or guitar. The artists of the 1960s and 70s are as highly regarded as they are due to them coming at the perfect time in the transition, they were skilled enough to be rockstars, not having had the internet to learn the basics separated the wheat from the chaff for that generation. They were also the last of their kind before an oversaturation of the market created the climate for the decline that we are still experiencing.
B. The modern guitar bands/artists that we do see, are, for the most part, a limited and warped selection of artists, which after making sure they appear as bland and unoffensive as possible, are often bankrolled by the record labels. If you join a band today with the dream of playing gigs you need to ensure that you bring an audience with you so that the venue’s bar can make money. Local music venues that claim in their advertising that they support their local music scene do not do this. They usually have bands play for free and ask them to sell tickets to the show to their friends, like pyramid schemes, this will only last so long. You might get all your buds to come along to the first gig or so, but after that you’re going to struggle to sell your tickets, which means you make less money for the venue and are therefore not worth investing in. These venues you are starting out in for your first gigs do not give a shit about your band, they only care about their bar making money.

C. Unfortunately for people in their twenties or those born in the 1990s, we are living in a decade that follows on from decades of the accumulation of bands and artists that have been working, and continue to, from all the way back to the 1950s. That’s six and a bit decades of our popular musical landscape collecting numerous popular artists that crucially put lots of bums on seats- seats that emerging artists no longer can access at increasingly diminishing decent local musical venues.  Diminishing in part, due to the unprecedented ability in recent years to carry one’s entire music collection in their pocket, removing the need for music lovers to seek new artists in the volume that they once did. New emerging artist hunting is now engaged in by a small group of music lovers who are not like the majority of the music world’s target audience. Cheddar cheese is the most popular in the world, not because it tastes the best, but because it’s the most basic and therefore has the best mass appeal. And it’s the same story with music generally. Clever successful artists know that they need to be careful in how clever they make their songs. Kanye West has some very clever lyrics slipped into some of his songs, but he also knows how to write a simple memorable hook as well.

D. Let’s not forget, before the advent of music being treated as a mainstream consumer product, this whole music thing has never happened in quite this way before. As a consequence, people are probably not going to go nuts for you in the same way audiences did in footage from a Stooges gig back in the day. Expectations are too high as the reception to guitar bands has now entered a “post displaying admiration” phase. Get used to folded arms and blank expressions whilst you play your heart out, a stage the majority of bands are at until they reach national press coverage and an album sells well.

E. More people than ever play guitar thanks to instructional YouTube videos from the likes of Marty Schwartz (who doesn’t have a Wikipedia page somehow). This creates a huge influx of people who can play music and want to form bands as the venues increasingly disappear.

In conclusion, it is pure madness to form a band right now in the current climate. You probably shouldn’t do it and you would be mad to try because statistically you’re not good enough or crucially lucky enough. Lucky enough to find a great manager or be in the know somehow. But if you love it, do it. Just make sure you really do, because the higher you go, the path quickly becomes very steep.