Wednesday, October 22, 2003

Unhappiest man in the land

Elliott Smith died yesterday. Dubbed the "unhappiest man in the land", his live-in girlfriend found him with a knife in his chest. It's an apparent suicide. Oh man ... I played his "Miss Misery" over and over again when I read this. Which put me in a melancholy mood. I wasn't a huge fan, but his music moved me. I never understood how people could cry over stupid lyrics like, "I'll follow you forever, but I'm currently dying ... so remember me for eternity" or something in that realm. The idea of anything "eternal" or "permanent" made me want to vomit the words right out of my mouth (due to my fear of commitment ... to anything.) But he was different. His lyrical simplicity somehow made an impact on me:

I'll fake it through the day
With some help from Johnny Walker Red
Send the poison rain down the drain
To put bad thoughts in my head
Two tickets torn in half
And a lot of nothin' to do
Do you miss me, Miss Misery
Like you say you do


Of course, I don't drink nor am I a reformed alcoholic (aka, sobered-up drunk) ... but his conscious, coherent, rational thoughts make more sense to me than anything Madonna tries to pass off as deep. I mean, yeah, as deep as a leaking midget wading pool.

I'm currently listening to the Doves' "The Man Who Told Everything" from their Lost Souls album. This and their "Sea Song" really makes you want to cry for melodic beauty, which I think is missing in modern music. There's too much experimentation and self-gratification in the music industry nowadays and not enough, I think, promotion of the arts as is, without all that pseudo-psychology crap they try to pull. It's an obvious tactic to hide the shame of being elementary school drop-outs who've acquired their vast "knowledge" from exotic gurus and illicit pharmaceuticals stolen from Hy & Zels:

"Quick! Fill up my underwear with Visine ... c'mon! Hurry it up, bitch! I don't got all day ... I got places to urinate and people to procreate. Okay, let's roll ... wait. Get me some of them blue pills there too. The old lady back home gon' get herself a sweet surprise tonight. Yee-haw!"

That was really off topic.

Anyway. Delibes's "Viens, Malika" and Debussy's "Arabesque, No. 1" (No. 2 sucks monkey ass compared to the first one) are also universally beautiful songs.

I've been listening to some Dodgy, Neil Sedaka (Woohoo! Bad Blood, oh yeah. It's the shit. A song about ... venereal disease?!), and Floetry. The last time I heard someone fake orgasm on record was Chaka Khan with her "Love To Love You Baby" and that sounded more '70s porno than sensuous eroticism performed by the latter in "Say Yes".

I guess this was my music blog. Power to the accordion!