Just something I was thinking about there. I've doubtless said it before, I'm saying it now, and I'll doubtless say it again;
I loathe Justin Beiber, for he almost single-handedly sums up everything I despise about modern music. It's as simple and as straightforward as that.
Music should be about talented artists, sharing a gift, whom hold a genuine, unbridled passion for creating a wonderful, unique imprint on the world of music, whatever the genre; the money and fame that follows should be a side-effect, a just reward, for the talent and quality shown by singers and bands. Instead, music is now (well, I say now, but the trend started a few years ago, sadly) about nothing but marketability,; some fat, balding, music executive and doubtless absolute wanker saw Justin Bieber and thought "HOLY SHIT I CAN MAKE A FUCKTON OF MONEY IF I USE THIS KIDS FACE IN CONJUNCTION WITH AN (at best) MEDIOCRE, GENERIC POP SOUND! AWESOME! TIME TO GO SNORT COCAINE OFF A HOOKERS ASS!"
Having the right sort of 'look' is now more important than, y'know, things like ACTUALLY HAVING SO MUCH AS A GODDAMN SMIDGEON OF MUSICAL ABILITY.
Justin Beiber, sums up the modern trend for marketability over having any redeeming musical qualities whatsoever. Seriously. Words cannot express how much I despise most modern music.
While I'm at it, here's a handy little test for you; have a wee listen, if you dare, to this terrible, terrible song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kffacxfA7G4)
Awful. Just awful. The same tired, shitty "OOOOHHH BABY GIRL YOU HOLD MY HEART I LOVE YOU LET'S BE TOGETHER FOREVER!" type of bullshit that gets peddled, year after year, for no better reason than it sells, complete with a cameo by some, at best, 'washed up on the shore', and at worst, 'was never near the fucking beach in the first place', no-mark rapper. It's just garbage.
Now, here's the test; compare that absolute pile of fail of a song with this belter;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGAGOXEFVb0
Brilliant. Haunting vocals, and a lot of love, craft, and thought has clearly been put into it, rather than some wanky producer throwing together a train-wreck of a pop 'song' (and I use the term loosely, since it's more akin to auditory rape than music) to brutally violate everybodies ears with.
If you honestly, hand-on heart, preferred listening to that train-wreck of a Bieber song over the other video, then you have failed the test.
You can argue all you want about the different aesthetic merits that music holds, and say things akin to "But Scott, that's just, like, your opinion man, everybody likes different sounds."
In which case, go and take a running fuck to yourself would be my answer. It's not even so much the songs that Bieber shites out onto the radio every so often that bother me, its the whole "talent is secondary to look" principle behind the thing that angers me. And it's not just folk like Bieber that annoy me, either. Don't even get me fucking started on girl groups; the concept of throwing together a few pretty, but ultimately tone-deaf and almost invariably talentless, women together and then asking them to make music pisses me off something rotten.
I can't be bothered with this shit anymore, I'm off to play fitba manager methinks. While listening to some *REAL* music in the background. Teckle.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Thursday, 25 November 2010
FIRST EVER POST. YAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSS.
Hello there.
My name is Scott Webster.
If you can't be sacked reading the incoherent ramblings and all-round stupid bullshit I tend to shit all over your facebook news feeds, then now would be a good time to leave. I'll sum up what this blog is for quite nicely for you with this; I learned to just live with the clumsy, cringeworthy and often downright idiotic things that happen to me and develop a self-depreciating sense of humour a long, long, LONG time ago. This blog will contain many of these things, as well as anything hilarious I see elsewhere (e.g. the colourful antics of Fraser the Psycho from Helensburgh, who is effectively my arch-nemesis, the crazy jakey woman at Scotstounhill Station, Weird Ponytail Guy, Strange Willie and so on, each more worthless and despicable than the last)
If, for some inexplicable reason, you still want to read on, then be my guest. I'll try to make it worthwhile, I promise.
I sell programmes at Firhill, for the mighty Jags. Well, I say mighty, but by that I mean awful. Really, truly terrible.I still love them in spite of this, and will turn up, rain wind or rain, draw lose or draw (well, for home games at least) I'm a 5'11, hairy, skinny bastard who laughs at inappropriate things and loves football, though years of soul-crushing, abject failure from Thistle and the Scotland national team coupled with the apathy that comes from age has dulled that somewhat. My general weekend routine consists of getting shitfaced with some friends (often with Buckfast, and also smoking ludicrous amounts of cheap, nasty ciggies. What can I say, I'm a classy, classy young man) while we watch DVD's of anything from Wayne's World to The Griswolds. It's fantastic. Going into helensburgh's many mediocre, wanker-filled pubs afterwards is not fantastic, however. It is, in fact, a bit shit. Still do it though. I'm not even sure why anymore.
That'll do for now, I reckon, though I'll leave you with one of my favourite night-out moments; I once got horrendously drunk down at the pub. As in, I must have looked like an absolute drunken, shambling mess of a human being at the time. The last thing I physically remember from that night was downing tequila shots with some of my brother's friends.
Anyway; I went to the same pub the next week with no recollection of the nights events, and the bouncer says to me as I'm going in "Mate, I'll let you in, yeah? But see if I catch you smoking in the toilets again, you're barred, you understand?"
My expression was a mixture of genuine bewilderment and being mildly horrified. The bouncer goes, "Don't look at me like that, mate, I caught you doing it!"
I explained to him that it wasn't me trying to look like I was innocent, more just that I was *THAT* wrecked I couldn't physically remember what the fuck happened that night, so it was coming as a shock to me that I'd been snouting up in the loo.
He laughed, said I did look a bit worse for wear, I assured him it wouldn't happen again and I was allowed back in.
I think I ended up waking up my next door neighbours, who live in a house that looks VERY similar to mine (even more so after buckfast, tragically) by knocking on their door and trying to get in at around 4AM that night after my mates had shoved me in a taxi. That's a story for another time, perhaps.
(just noticed, I probably look like a raging alchoholic from this. I'm not, these are just the highlights picked out from the particularly horrific weekends) Most of the time I get tipsy at best, and sober enough to remember I'm still in cunting Helensburgh at worst.)
My name is Scott Webster.
If you can't be sacked reading the incoherent ramblings and all-round stupid bullshit I tend to shit all over your facebook news feeds, then now would be a good time to leave. I'll sum up what this blog is for quite nicely for you with this; I learned to just live with the clumsy, cringeworthy and often downright idiotic things that happen to me and develop a self-depreciating sense of humour a long, long, LONG time ago. This blog will contain many of these things, as well as anything hilarious I see elsewhere (e.g. the colourful antics of Fraser the Psycho from Helensburgh, who is effectively my arch-nemesis, the crazy jakey woman at Scotstounhill Station, Weird Ponytail Guy, Strange Willie and so on, each more worthless and despicable than the last)
If, for some inexplicable reason, you still want to read on, then be my guest. I'll try to make it worthwhile, I promise.
I sell programmes at Firhill, for the mighty Jags. Well, I say mighty, but by that I mean awful. Really, truly terrible.I still love them in spite of this, and will turn up, rain wind or rain, draw lose or draw (well, for home games at least) I'm a 5'11, hairy, skinny bastard who laughs at inappropriate things and loves football, though years of soul-crushing, abject failure from Thistle and the Scotland national team coupled with the apathy that comes from age has dulled that somewhat. My general weekend routine consists of getting shitfaced with some friends (often with Buckfast, and also smoking ludicrous amounts of cheap, nasty ciggies. What can I say, I'm a classy, classy young man) while we watch DVD's of anything from Wayne's World to The Griswolds. It's fantastic. Going into helensburgh's many mediocre, wanker-filled pubs afterwards is not fantastic, however. It is, in fact, a bit shit. Still do it though. I'm not even sure why anymore.
That'll do for now, I reckon, though I'll leave you with one of my favourite night-out moments; I once got horrendously drunk down at the pub. As in, I must have looked like an absolute drunken, shambling mess of a human being at the time. The last thing I physically remember from that night was downing tequila shots with some of my brother's friends.
Anyway; I went to the same pub the next week with no recollection of the nights events, and the bouncer says to me as I'm going in "Mate, I'll let you in, yeah? But see if I catch you smoking in the toilets again, you're barred, you understand?"
My expression was a mixture of genuine bewilderment and being mildly horrified. The bouncer goes, "Don't look at me like that, mate, I caught you doing it!"
I explained to him that it wasn't me trying to look like I was innocent, more just that I was *THAT* wrecked I couldn't physically remember what the fuck happened that night, so it was coming as a shock to me that I'd been snouting up in the loo.
He laughed, said I did look a bit worse for wear, I assured him it wouldn't happen again and I was allowed back in.
I think I ended up waking up my next door neighbours, who live in a house that looks VERY similar to mine (even more so after buckfast, tragically) by knocking on their door and trying to get in at around 4AM that night after my mates had shoved me in a taxi. That's a story for another time, perhaps.
(just noticed, I probably look like a raging alchoholic from this. I'm not, these are just the highlights picked out from the particularly horrific weekends) Most of the time I get tipsy at best, and sober enough to remember I'm still in cunting Helensburgh at worst.)
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