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Music: Born Forever Ago, Died Just Recently

Music…has left the building.

The long love of many, the life companion of few, recently passed away as a resulting complication from fame hungry musical posers, non-talent hacks and mainstream corporations driven by the all-mighty dollar.

Forever, may she rest in peace.

Now, I’m sure there are aplenty of you who are rather certain music has not died, like I suggest with this article. And I’d bet my pet giraffe there are just as many of you, if not more, who are rather sure of your musical brilliance and are calling me a dirty liar who knows nothing of this matter. In the world of journalism, I must accept these opinions of yours. But I need not agree with them. Which I, in any way you look at it, do not.

Music, in any form, may seem like something in your life which you choose to listen to. Or something you choose to dance to. Or clean the house to. Cook to. Create art to. Make love to. Live to. And if you are one of the people who believes you do choose the music you love, you are one of the people who are in the wrong because the music you love, chooses you. As Phillip Seymour Hoffman so magnificently stated while playing the immortal music writer Lester Bangs in Almost Famous, “Music, you now, true music – not just rock n roll – it chooses you. It lives in your car, or alone listening to your headphones, you know, with the cast of scenic bridges and angelic choirs in your brain. It’s a place apart from the vast, benign lap of America.”

You do not get a choice in the music which makes your heart pump harder. Or the music which makes you bang your fist with the drummer kicking the bass pedal. Or the music making you remember the events in your life – the good, bad and everything in between. It finds you.

Over the years, there has been much music created which found me and nestled up inside my body to call it home. The songs found me when I needed them and never left. The music wasn’t created for me and me alone, the music was created for all of us who needed it to remedy whatever it was we needed a fix for.

Stories created and delivered by dreamers, by lovers, by romantics. Tales spun by the hopeless, the meaningful, the never resting. Gut wrenching harmonies connected with tear jerking choruses. Rage intensifying lyrics, covered with angelic voices. Instrumentals which told a story in themselves. When the music, was still music.

Amy Winehouse. Johnny Cash. Lenny Kravitz. Ray LaMontagne. Kurt Cobain. Beck Hansen. Barry White. Axl Rose. Leonard Cohen. David Mustaine. Billy Idol. Duke Ellington. Billy Joel. Bob Seger. Marshall Mathers III. Buddy Guy. Buddy Holly. John Coltrane. Ritchie Valens. J.P. Richardson. Santana. Shawn Carter. Charlie Daniels. Chris Cornell. Eddie Veder. Dave Grohl. Edward Lodewiik. Van Halen. Garth Brooks. Elvis Costello. Frank Sinatra. Eric Clapton. Willie Nelson. Frank Zappa. Freddy Mercury. B.B. King. George Harrison. Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Joan Jett. Louis Armstrong. Patti Smith. Keith Richards. Iggy Pop.

The above listed names are a very small collection of musicians who will forever be REAL musicians because they told the damn stories they wanted to tell, the way they wanted to tell them, not the way a suit told them to. They made their music the way to best suit the story they knew, not the best way to make the most money. They made their music tell the stories the way the stories went and made these stories easy to relate to. But most importantly, they remembered to stay true to themselves and never sell out.

All things the jokes who pretend to be musicians today have clearly forgotten.

I’m looking at you Bieber.