Disillusionment

For the most part, people are just ridiculous (myself included). The real rub is most people don't realize how ridiculous they are. The ones that do often spend a lot of time laughing at themselves and everyone else. I mean look at us. Really. Good gracious. Every time I venture outside I wonder if I have stumbled into a sitcom, and nothing cracks me up more than people who take themselves too seriously.

Even horses think we are ridiculous. Horses!

Being ridiculous can be good and no one wants to be miserable in this wacky world. To help get us through our daily tribulations we employ the talents of the creative to help color and brighten our lives. Unfortunately the people who create art are themselves imperfect humans, and being one such construct I can verify this fact.

One form of art that just about everyone turns to in all degrees of mood is music.

Music came about as a form of expression, a way for people to make life more entertaining through an emotional and melodious medium. In the beginning some genius put it together that they could create a catchy beat by pounding on something, someone else sang, the natives danced, and the coconuts rejoiced. Fast forward through time and our popular music today is a far cry from that of our ancestors. I would say over the years mankind has produced some pretty remarkable pieces of music, such as Beethoven’s Moonlight. On the other hand we have The Black Eyed Peas.

This planet is doomed.

Sadly, this is the case with Heavy Metal as well. It started out as a great idea, you know, play loudly, bang head, and yell. Now it seems to be more about fighting over stage real-estate, not sharing the spotlight, how you play your tunes, and through what gear. I have come to notice a plague of musicians that are more concerned with displays of technical skill than the conveyance of their emotions. Actually, I think this has always been prevalent, I just didn’t notice it as much.

That feeling you get when you realize that the object of your passion isn’t as genuine as you thought is called: disillusionment. It’s kind of a drag a little bit. Well, it’s a drag until you realize it’s ridiculous, and then it’s funny, like church. Ha-ha-hallelujah!

God bless Photoshop.

Anyway, the culprit: Ego, the puppeteer of objectification and materialism.

It destroys everything, even Red Box. Nice wallpaper patterned with little yellow ducks, a soothing massage from a tiny Asian lady with loose morals, or a nice meal, we find ways to screw it all up with our insatiable lust for ego stroking. Sometimes we put a lot of faith into or place an overabundance of importance onto something deceptively simple. Other times we take something great in conception and warp it into a mockery or destroy it in implementation. We must love being miserable. Egotistically miserable, if there is such a thing.

I see it all the time at my band’s shows. Too many bands these days have no stage presence. The musicians just stand there, concentrating so hard that they refuse to move about, shackled by insecurity. They are so afraid if they play one note imperfectly that someone may notice and not think them gods. If they do move it is just to position themselves in the limelight so everyone can see how cool they are. They are more interested in appearance than music. Their music is just runway lights for their soaring egos.

Like high-school kids and their first automobiles, musicians these days try to one-up each other with their gear. Constantly people try to “talk shop” with me and I have no clue what they are saying. I just smile, nod, and make them so bored that they leave me alone eventually. Who cares what your guitar is plugged into; all I care is that it sounds good, and most folks today do not sound good, despite the cost and sheen of their over-expenditures. I find it sad that these people insist on muddying something as simple as music with hyperbolic jargon, the brands of their tools, and herd minded conformity. Metal used to be about pushing the limits, breaking the rules, and unleashing chaos. Now it is becoming a brand of clothing made of wool and worn by sheep. Baaah.

Guitar virtuoso.

It should be emotion that guides the composer’s pen over his or her manuscript and fingers upon the instrument, not ego. The moment you forsake truth for façade you forfeit your artistry. It’s called feinting by numbers.

As always, this just means the cream rises to the top and the unique flourish and succeed. Everyone else is just here for me to laugh or snore at. I’m in it for the art not the attention, or the sex, or the drugs. I don’t need the flaccid approval of others to feel good about myself. As long as I like what I play then I am good. I write and play for me and me alone. As long as the few pioneers out there keep innovating and leading us I can tolerate the ego fueled trite that burdens the stages of today. Barely.

Disillusionment with Metal is why I have found more enjoyment in other genres of music lately. I would have to say that my favorite bands of the past year and a half are: Muse, Franz Ferdinand, Garbage, Shivaree, with Yeah Yeah Yeahs barely edging The Birthday Massacre out of my top five. I still listen to the classic Metal bands that I have always loved (Black Sabbath, Cradle of Filth, Iron Maiden, Gwar, etc.) but I am stirred more by modern alt-pop-rock than what is passing for Metal these days.

Another picture of a laughing horse, because hay, why not?

Maybe I am getting old and crotchety. Maybe stuff just sucks. I think I am just too Metal for Metal.

Love,
Smiley Grimm