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I broke down yesterday in Sam's Club. Not mentally, mind you, but financially. I bought the new offering from Norah Jones, Feels like Home. Yet another masterpiece. After immersing my mind and my soul in the warming springs of her and her band's smooth musicality I have become even more displeased with modern mainstream music. I particularly direct my ire at "music" that seems to get pushed at me from my television set, from such used car salesmen as MTV and VH1 to the crack dealers at CMT. Back when it was still fashionable (and Metallica had not completely sold out, bless Jason Newstead), I downloaded all sorts of musical constructs and sometimes odd compostions. I enjoyed surfing the music sites of unsigned talents to pick the pearls of sonic beauty from the shells of anonymity. Granted, I sometimes succumbed to childish whims and downloaded Mr. Obvious and old comedy skits from Dr. Demento, not to mention remixed Southpark tunes and Da Yoopers! Most of it was music from my youth that was next to impossible to find in the dens of ill repute, such as Walmart , Sam Goody's, where the selection is usually as deep as Billboard's Top 10 R&B. I found music before the mainstream found it, a rather satisfying feeling, let me tell you. I found Pat Green, now making a name in mainstream, poor soul. Uncle Tupelo, Robert Earl Keen, Hank Williams III, Kasey Chambers, Paul Thorn, Warren Haynes, Hope Sandoval, Popa Chubby and a lifetime's listening of other great talent. And they all have one thing in common that the slick suits on T.V. forgot about. Melody.
Remember a melody? Back when people could and would whistle, melody played a large role in the choice of song. It made the song immediately identifiable. It made the song a song. That quickly evaporated as talent became less emphasized and good looks became de rigueur. As ethereal as melody may sometimes sound, it's not as difficult to produce, though some ability is required. The drop in record sales are proof enough, though executives are incredulous if this is even addressed. The listening audience, according to them and the media and most politicians are a bunch of hayseeds, brainless monkeys who plop their money down to hear the same old song and dance. And it makes them money. Until the internet allowed people to make their own albums, mixes of different artists whose complete albums were far below mediocrity. Then the labels sat up and took notice. Who in their right mind would buy 11 broken eggs for the 1 remaing edible one and pay for a dozen?
White folks are the biggest damn copycats in music, though with the exception of rap have managed to add their own flair and make their own new creations. But now the crackers seem to have forgotten that we're crackers. Rap is an urban musical trick, mostly simple, ranging from humorous to murderous. White people don't fit in the equation, except as a story to be told. Vanilla Ice was a poseur, Eminem is smart trailer trash, and the Beastie Boys play their own instruments. White soul is another no-no. The Righteous Brothers have that corner of the market. No one can top the performances of Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, Luther, and more names than I have room for. Not many white women got soul either. They usually just parrot singers of a bygone era. Celine Dion is more operatic than soul and none of the eye candy on television have the feeling, the emotion to sing soul. We've only really managed to steal the blues and bastardize it enough to make it white, because we couldn't leave well enough alone. Jazz, as I sit here listening to Norah, is black. And I thank God, if he's out there, everyday for that.
The only real "white" music is white blues, or bluegrass and it's even been influenced by black culture and history. Many songs were slave songs, gospel hymns sung in fields or in homes. Like the blues, it is true and visceral and unadorned and idealogically simple if not so musically. With the "surprising" success of O' Brother Where Art Thou? and it's ensuing soundtrack, bluegrass gained a larger following and a bit more respect from audiences that only scoffed at the thought of bluegrass before. With the angelic vocals of artists such as Alison Krauss, Dolly Parton, Gillian Welch and Emmy Lou Harris, along with the musical prowess of folks like Ricky Skaggs, Jerry Douglas, Dave Grisman and Earl Scruggs, there is more substance and intelligence in their music than the fodder we're fed by the mainstream.
Berry Gordy was a genius. The man had an ear and a soul for good music. He knew what sounded good. He knew substance. He knew intelligence. He knew talent. Now we have Sean Coombs. He's an idiot. He's a rip-off artist, too lazy to make his own melody. He borrows someone else's train of thought and goes somewhere else with it. Music and lyrics are yin and yang. You don't play New York, New York while singing the words to Folsom Prison Blues. It's just wrong. Music is not monotone vocals or a string of same pitch notes from beginning to end. That's beatnik poetry. Rock and roll is in it's mainstream death throes and real soul music is destined to follow.
Kurt Cobain, or the death of him, is the bane of today's rock music. After living through the grunge epidemic of the last decade (Bring out yer dead!!!), I realized I wasn't pissed off at the world or my parents or something enough. Kurt helped me through that. It was an angry hippie movement. Good music sprouted from anger or angst, if you must. Fleeting glimpses of greatness, like the Gin Blossoms, Blind Melon, Ozzy Osbourne (joke!), and others made my 10 years of suffering worthwhile. Then his wife, the Lorrie Morgan of grunge, killed him. Not physically, but she could have just as easily pulled that trigger for him. After the mourning had subsided, the happy music popped up, slowly at first, but quickly building up a head of steam. We heard such memorable favourites as Ace of Bass, Aaliyah, Michael Bolton, All-4-Love and Big Mountain. Then it went downhill from there. Real McCoy, Adina Howard, Notorious B.I.G., 2 Pac, Los Del Rio, Puff Daddy, Backstreet, Destiny's Child, Christina Aguilera, LFO. What an all star lineup. Who wants to walk on the sun? In 2000, Creed showed up to point out the error of our ways and seek penance for not investing in Jagermeister. You want a Jesus figure, go watch Jesus Christ Superstar. No place in this world for a wacko with a Jesus complex.
Oddly enough, it was Nirvana who helped me out of my depths of depair. Not really. The internet did. I found there was music beyond the Muzac of life. Hopefully you will too. Maybe someday we can all revolt and get our music back. Until then I thank God and Al Gore for inventingthe internet.