Jun 17
(System Of A Down, System Of A Down)
I’m playing System Of A Down’s self-titled album (no, this is not a “review”) as the black dog that shares my current domicile seems to be going apeshit upstairs. I’m calmly sipping water from a brandy snifter, staring at a room which looks cleaner than it has ever been in the past 5 months. Welcome to my life.
I’m making this point, as this is the anti-thesis of the generic blog you find populating digital domains. For one, I’m sure our more intrepid readers have noted that infrequent nature of our posts. One of the reasons that Prashant and I began this venture was to give ourselves a platform to voice our often tangential views. We agreed however that the best way to express ourselves was in our own sweet time, so to those who complain: Screw You!
A more personal reason for me to convert these various swirling thoughts into electronic immortality is that I can’t stand shitty writing. And believe you me; there are cartloads of elephant dung out on the Internet. Hopefully we’re not contributing to that festering pile. I’d like to imagine that our writing is collective, as Mao would proudly say, “First among equals.”
I have been called an egotistical bastard by some, that my writing carries about it a pretentious stench. I take pride in the fact that what I write and say touches nerves and sets people off.
(The Who, Meaty Beaty Big And Bouncy)
I’ve never been a fan of the compilation. While Best Of’s tend to showcase, arguably, the best songs recorded by a band, I take to heart a lesson I was taught many moons ago. An album is a snapshot of a musician’s current state of mind, and should stay a snapshot.
That being said, compilations are an excellent way to introduce virgin ears to the exquisite experience that is (insert favourite band name here).
(Vivaldi, The Four Seasons)
For those keeping track, yes, it has taken me about 2 hours to write this drivel. On the other hand, I could have spewed this literary diarrhea in one minute. But you wouldn’t know.
Coherency is simply an illusion created by the oppressors. Revel in the chaos that is stream of consciousness.
Is there some relevant point to all of this? Robert Frost said that it was just a poem about another road.
