Jj
Kills

Be a duo, possibly a man and a woman, linked by an ambiguity (friends? lovers? siblings?), which is currently so trendy. Declare yourselves indie-alternative, ensuring that she has a face that could be placed anywhere. It doesn’t really matter if she can sing or not, the important thing is to have that ethereal atmospheric voice, as autotune will fix everything.

He can comfortably remain in the shadows, but must be a handsome Nordic hunk, able to turn two knobs and make some electronic sounds already overused, but always cool.

Oh, and don’t forget! Have a terribly bored look. Don’t let your voices have anything that’s engaging or captivating, fall asleep! Fall asleep on your mixes, on your synths, on your microphones! After all, if anyone asks, yours is dream-pop!

And here you are, you are jj, ready to make completely harmless music and pass it off as innovative, capable of great things, and appearing on all the covers of Dazed & Confused. There are already thirteen-year-old hipsters singing your little songs. And soon you’ll disappear, but it doesn’t matter: yours is niche glory. You are too avant-garde to be understood, even with your unlistenable boring-pop. So what do you do? A mixtape, now oh-so-cool, and you put it up for free download on your website, to spread your word, ending up on the iPods of all those who listen to you only because you’re a musical case. A new trend. A trend, perhaps, that's already dead.

Too bad there is a certain O__O, a hobbyist reviewer, who can’t stand you, who deems your attempts a bit of stealing from here and there, who considers your music a torment for the ears: too sleepy to be listened to with pleasure and attention, but irritating to be a soothing way to fight insomnia. Your attempts to introduce samples of M.I.A., rap, Taio Cruz (WHAT?), and other sounds (even Caribbean) don’t matter, because your music is useless. When it's good, it’s below the threshold of decency, when it’s bad, you become a warning for suicide (“New York” is something atrocious). Nothing, our dear reviewer can’t take it anymore: he would like to write a serious review of your efforts, but he has already burst into tears. 

"Kills" flies out from his window, but don’t worry: you’ll continue to be the guests of honor at any radical chic party.

From Sweden with love.