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I am a despicable person. I know it. Don’t say anything; I am. I am aware. I hate myself because in 2014 I developed a deep intolerance towards the contemporary. Because I cannot tolerate surpassing what was there before. I am quite accustomed to change, to the new, but surpassing—that—I absolutely cannot abide. It’s playing dirty. It’s freemasonry. Why on earth couldn’t I enjoy something just because I’m so ignorant that I don’t know what was there before? Can’t there be this and that? Does the world perhaps contemplate aut/aut?
Let me explain better. I hate. Deeply. With. All. Myself all that bears the prefix Post in front but then positions itself behind, surpassing, that thing preceded by the prefix. Even the definition gives you a headache, let alone afterward.
Example? Okay, Example. The only post I don’t say I endure but I tolerate is Post-It notes. Just so because, chronically, I am a hopelessly disorganized person, and it can be useful to remind you of things in your disorder. For instance, you forgot to pay the bill, you wander around the house and find a post-it telling you today you need to pick up the clothes from the laundry, just to mess up your day even more. Now, you didn’t pay the bill, but at least you have a shiny outfit, what more could you ask for? It’s satisfaction.
Post-rock, well, I hate that too with all my being. Elvis Presley gave you this gift, like a modern Prometheus. Rock. So visceral, simple, impactful, accessible, spontaneous. He took all those crazies who had mental fusses, them, music, mathematics, harmony, etc., and he said "go find yourself a girl who needs you"
Bravo Elvis. Long live Elvis Presley. And everything was going well until. Until the rock could remain untainted by those damned crazies who live on avant-gardes and take holidays in the Maldives? But no, no they couldn’t. We must build a philosophy about Rock. We must SURPASS IT. SURPASS IT. SUR-PASS-IT
Damned Nietzsche. Now tell me. Will anyone swear to me that they go to a post-rock concert to listen to music and not get drunk? I, when alone at home playing a post-rock track, swear I’d love to get drunk but can’t because I don’t have the powers of the good Jesus. And so, I sleep. Not on purpose, but I sleep. 11 minutes of boredom. Perhaps more than 11 minutes repeated of arpeggios and chants, but it doesn’t matter because I usually fall asleep before. Between minute 5 and 6. Among the groups I tally in this genre are SLINT. The very famous Slint. How the hell did I not know them and live without them until the day before yesterday when I read the review on scarurockdellamusica.net.org? How did I not adorn a fantastic devotional plaque with incense in my room? HOW DID I NOT DO IT? I didn’t because Slint are CRAP, and probably if it weren’t for some madman in a perennial existential crisis unfit to live, no one would have given them a thought for much longer. Because, I mean, when you hear Slint for the first time, you think, who are these? What do they want? Why make all this noise? Why won’t they leave that poor guitar alone? And you need to understand them; you’re an ignoramus, they told me.
And they understood them. Yes, thanks to Scaruffi.
Post-punk, who knows it? Who doesn’t? Now, please, the punk already sucks. I mean, what genius could consider the new frontier of music history a musical genre made by people who DON’T know how to play? A perfect idiot, indeed. Perfect idiots. I want to point out a few things in no particular order.
Punk was born with the Sex Pistols, and the Sex Pistols are a legalized scam/fraud.
Punk was born in 1977 when evidently people were still under the influence of drugs and acids from the previous decade.
If logic is not an opinion, they probably sounded awful, and people listened to dog-sounded music, but it didn’t seem dog-sounded because people were still under the influence of substances from the previous decade. And, it can be true, we’ve all done something deeply wrong and embarrassing in life under the influence of substances. Unless you have a taste for the horrific like Gianni Morandi, but what can you do, some people like it.
But explain to me What. The. Hell. Is. The. Reason. For. Founding. A. Genre. That. “Surpasses.” Punk?
Come on, it’s a joke. It’s intolerable. It’s criminal. I mean, not only do you let them crap in your mouth under the influence, but you go beyond. After the hangover, you discover you even liked it. You put up posters. Guys, do it all: it’s great. You found a church, a religion. Invent variants. Crap with blueberry, peach, coconut, raspberry flavor.
And here it is, post-punk. People who can’t play supersede people who can’t play because they add, besides the four classic instruments of those who can’t play, a robotronic keyboard with the delay effect. Another one adds the drum machine that’s so in vogue, and soon we’ll be in the eighties, and there are the bitches wanting to snort coke in the club restroom while shaking to the rhythm of dance music. Fantastic.
Curiosity: the most representative band of this movement, perhaps the putative fathers of this abortion, are Joy Division. I mean, let’s focus on the name. Joy. Division. Famous lyrics: love will tear us apart again. Singer dead by hanging himself at 23. Mood: depressed/suicidal.
Probably they too were discovered by someone inept at living.
And finally the peak. The triumph. The absolute genius. Post-Modern. I enunciate the words. Post. Modern.
POST.
MODERN.
Which is absolutely the triumph of Beelzebub on earth for a myriad of reasons. Firstly, postmodern means NOTHING. No, nothing, absolutely nothing, zero. If you do a search on Wikipedia, you’ll discover that under the entry postmodern there’s such a long list of bullshit so vast that they have nothing in common except their supposed uselessness to exist that you might probably shudder in the attempt to find at least another common element among such absurdities - but above all, you could lose faith in the human race in realizing how many people enriched themselves creating bullshit with no head nor tail but OH MY GOD, there’s worse the POST-MODERN is decidedly worse than this.
It is the triumph of bad taste, for example. For example, have you ever seen an example of postmodern cinema? Post/modern cinematic language? I’ll tell you a story. Once, I went out with a babe who coerced me to go to the movies to see a film by a certain P. S.
The film was about a fallen rock star who painted herself like a hooker on the ring road. Then, this rock star hooker’s father died. And so she decided to track down, for no reason, the Nazi executioner who had imprisoned her father years before in a concentration camp. Key moments of the film: the naked Nazi lying face down in the cold of Siberia, the kiss with the Gnu, the makeup-less rock star.
I never wanted to see her again.
I just hope I don’t run into her now while she’s making out with a Gnu
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