Ist Poem, Written in the Key ov Strife:
if a black man
can't be happy as a
white woman in this world,
what chance do I have?
Oh, King of Pop, how we miss thee.
Where should we look now for music with such insubstantial grooves that it makes DeBarge sound like Deicide?
Oh, Jacko, you've left a
hole-o in our
heart-o that nary a
soul-o can now
And it's just so tempting to leave it at that. Now, don't get me wrong, I dug MJ. He gave Toto their best gig, gave Eddie Van some blissful time away from, uh, this, and was an all around brilliant little kiddie that helped launch the spectacular career of his finest sibling. PYT is still transcendent (So good, in fact, that even Monica couldn't butcher it), he did the best job biting this oft-quoted curio, and he gave Quincy Jones a great outlet to experiment on one superior lite-R&B album (Off the Wall, for the record) and one understandably overrated--yet lyrically fascinating--compilation of bizarre-o paranoia and Weegee-esque blood n' guts. And, let's keep in mind, if it wasn't for MJ, QJ would be best known for this group of chronic underachievers and some unfairly overlooked solo albums, much like this guy. So I liked him. But, after reading a week's worth of smarmy epilogues and ridiculous "I was there when..." eulogies, I realized I didn't love him. That's was okay, though, because, for the entire world, it stopped being about the actual fucking music that the man put out.
And, in a really roundabout, and well, lame way, that birthed this shitstain of a blog--that will only last a few posts, probably--into life. See, I used to be a music writer. I used to write well. Now, I only write good. That's apathy's fault. I'd forgotten about the cool little tidbits that made music meaningful to me and that's the inherent contradictions that make music human. Michael Jackson was a flawed perfectionist. I mean, c'mon, how could a music nerd not have his wang-meat enlarged by that? Children under twelve are not obligated to answer that.
So, for the next 500 songs, that's my goal. Drop a decent song on your ears with a fun spin on there; nothing more, nothing less. And, hopefully, we'll have a legion of posters that will do the same. Because, let's be realistic, you don't have time to listen to an album. You just fucking don't. There's more full-album blogs out there now then there are Michael Jackson memorial shirts in Compton. While it might be fun to peruse those blogs and download whatever ripped disc is being touted as "essential" or "the greatest thing ever," you're never going to listen to all of that shit. It'll sit on a petrified external hard drive and will only be played when alien archeologist unearth your Western Digital and wonder why you like Hall & Oats so much. Songs, you can do. Especially in this economy. A cliche end to a cliche post on a cliche blog. This will get better.