I think I’m in the wrong decade, or my gods just killed themselves way too early.
I mean look at Kurt Cobain. I would have bought all his records, and I would have attended his concert/s here in Manila, and I would have fought promoters if they make of his music too much of a commodity, but then he goes and shoots himself.
Take Janis Joplin. In one concert, she asked about the crowd’s condition, if they were getting enough water and if they had a good space for sleep. And she told them, it’s just music, people should just enjoy it. I think she was referring to the whole hoopla of buying expensive tickets and lining up a day or two before the gates open for people to secure a good place — all those consequences of commercialism and merchandising. And she said: “If you’re getting more shit than you deserve, you know what to do.”
Don’t even get me started with Amy Winehouse. Or with Jimi Hendrix.
I’m in the wrong decade. I’m in the wrong country.
Don’t die yet, Joni. Don’t die yet, Aimee. And Fiona. And Skin. And Ani. And Sarah B.. And Sara M.. And Michael S.. And Karen O.. And Dave M.. And Thom Y.. And Florence. And Adele. And the rest of the artists peopling my music player. If I could, I would construct a bubble as large as a football stadium and fill it with sustenance and clean air and provisions and all the things to satisfy your whiles and your wants plus shifting seasons customized for your allergies and tastes and complete with state of the art music equipment. You’d just be staying there inside that huge-ass snowglobe living your lives and creating music when and if you want. You’d forever be protected. The globe would be bulletproof, nukeproof, bombproof, biochemical hazard-proof, anthrax and all the invisible killers out there-proof, and end of the world-proof.
It would be a musical Eden. I would only have to slip the earphones on and lose myself in your world.
A TOTALLY UNRELATED POSTSCRIPT (OR P.S.)
I totally hate on people who tend to call me emo even in jest whenever I exhibit distress or weariness. As far back as I can remember, I have been utterly sad since I was five or four years old, and I think I have enough baggage to prove it. That time, emo-ness was still swimming in a primordial soup of base urges. I would say I was way ahead of its time, and I’m not proud of it. It’s just the way things are, and it’s not as if I wallow. Wallowing is several steps away from “the secret house,” from annihilation. I could take the adjective dramatic or blue but not emo. It’s a matter of word choice, and you know how worlds can be contained in a word. Let this be a warning from a person who is onion-skinned.
My ultimate top 2 song (top 1 being Candlebox’s Far Behind) and part of my funeral playlist
Part of my ultimate top 10 songs and, of course, part of my funeral playlist