Author: Kyle

Something bothers me about the statement “music is dead,” but I can’t quite put my shaking fingers on what it is. Is it the thought that something so precious could be gone for good? Or is it the idea that we put so much trust in something dead? People believe in Jesus, and he’s been dead for a long time, so why not believe in music?

I don’t think music is dead; it’s more or less in a coma. People tend to make music something more than it really is. Music is rhythm, beat, art, texture, etc. Music is thousands of years old; something so strong and powerful didn’t lay down the idea of bad hair, crappy lyrics, and terribly long guitar solos. No, music went into a vegetative state at the sight of what was happening. People stopped listening to the words and what the music meant, and they turned it into trends and fads.

Music was all about freedom and being able to enjoy oneself; people developed ideologies which transformed music into clothing and lifestyle. With the vinyl that used to turn America disappearing, cassettes fading into the sunset, CDs slowly following, downloading music reigns supreme. No one appreciates the idea of an album anymore, just the new hit single. Kids care more about how tight their jeans are, how bright their Nike Airs are, and if the have the right sunglasses on. Hipsters, emo kids, wannabe punkers, post grunge pre-alternative rockers, metal heads, and new wavers care about their attire and not the music they are associated with.

Before Kurt ate a shotgun shell, before Madonna became a virgin again, before Michael moon-walked, and even before Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane crashed in a swamp, people listened to the music for what it was worth and not what they thought it should be worth.

Though the people stopped caring long ago, the musicians still put all the time and effort into the music. To this day, the opening instrumental to “Sweet Child O’ Mine” sends chills down my spine no matter what band is playing it.

Put on an album, plug in a cassette, drop a CD into the tray, click an MP3. Without music, where would we be? If we never knew the joys, we would be exactly where we are now, but the world would be missing something. A piece of magic which has brought together lovers, ended wars, torn down walls, and built up hope. Things would definitely be different than they are now.

The earth could still be spinning into oblivion, the polar ice caps could melt, sun explode, the devil himself could come before the world and sentence us all to death. This all doesn’t matter though, simply because we have the key to get over it all with music. People are worried about their toddlers and teenagers watching graphic movies, playing violent video games, or doing something dangerous with household cleaning products. Parents feel safe with leaving the children to music … well, maybe not metal. But metal isn’t even the most dangerous to listen to; it’s pop music with its tails of heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery, and loss.

It’s said that the devil got Robert Johnson, but the devil is an old fairy tale in today’s time of technology. Should I worry that the world is shaking and I’m shaking with it? Should I believe this man with a pointed face speaks tales of the end of days?

In one ear and out the other, Franky shoots me a look of anger. She’s treating me like a child who is impatiently waiting for his trans-fat free kiddie meal that includes a plastic toy with parts small enough to lodge themselves in my throat. Multi-colored treasure chest with the demon clown tattooed on the side like it’s supposed to make me smile.

The roots of her hair are starting to burst through the green. I love her like a high school cheerleader loves her first competition but slowly learns they are all the same. Franky’s nose ring, sense of humor, and love of The Who seemed interesting. It’s only now as we stand in front of this dime store that I realize she’s just another face in the crowd of conformity. I used to think she was one of those unique individuals who spoke for themselves.

As the grains of sand I call a life pass by, I realize she’s nothing but a fraud. She’s one of those girls who always claimed to be a punk, but couldn’t remember why. She acted as if her life was printed from a manual whist dictated what to do.

One time she took me to the mall to shop for new rings for her ever-growing ear piercing collection. She shopped in a center of commerce but bitched the whole way back to her house. She said that the prices were ridiculous, and the starving Ethiopians who made the rings in a sweatshop were making only pennies an hour. That, on top of the music she forced me to listen to, was it.

The music made me feel as if a cancerous worm was burrowing itself deep into my brain. I thought about her crappy music, clothes, he beliefs in the devil, her terrible dye job, her hypocrisy. I thought about the music not being dead, the things I was missing, the things I could be doing instead. I thought about all of this, and I laughed. 

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