I Am The Voice Of Reason

Someone actually had the sheer audacity to ask me if I even like music since I spend a good deal of time ridiculing the majority of artists and shrieking at the radio. Well, readers, I'll tell you exactly what I told this person: "Fuck You." I know more about music and have infinitely better taste than roughly 99.9% of the general population and it is, indeed, a terrible burden for me to bear. Trust me people- my life would be a helluva lot easier if I could hear a Kelly Clarkson song on the car radio and ignorantly sing along. Last time I wasn't paying attention and didn’t change the station in time, I found myself welcoming the opening stages of a Grand-Maw seizure and a concussion I sustained after my head slammed violently against the steering wheel, nearly causing me to spill the beer in my hand.

First, let me give some perspective regarding my musical upbringing and the improbability that I managed to rise above it. (If I could do it, I would insert a stirring rendition of “We Shall Overcome” right about now.) Everything I know about music is entirely self-taught. My parents' contribution to my musical education was heartfelt, but highly unhelpful. I reference the 45 (yes, it was an actual forty-five) of Kylie Minoque's version of The Locomotion that they bought me on my 6th birthday. Even then, I remember thinking a 6-year-old's version of "This song really sucks ass," and trying my best to feign gratefulness while checking for a price tag so I could exchange it. I was nobody’s fool, even then.

I tried to rise above the musical mediocrity inadvertently inflicted upon me and did manage to squirrel away a copy of The Animals, "House of The Rising Sun" which I played incessantly upon my blue and white Fisher-Price record player. It wasn't "Dark Side Of The Moon," but it wasn't The Oak Ridge Boys (my parents were big fans), either. The height of my mother's musical Naziness culminated in a dramatic gesture of absconding the aforementioned record and banishing it to the upper shelf of her closet on the grounds that she didn't deem it "age appropriate" for a 5-year-old. Oddly, she found it disturbing that her child was belting out lyrics about a whorehouse in New Orleans. Mothers are funny like that. She attempted to placate my justifiable anger by assuring me that it would be returned to me when she determined it more suitable. She then allegedly lost the damn thing in a move, but to this day I feel certain she has it hidden somewhere in the house and is keeping it from me just to be hateful. Considering the musical trauma I suffered at such an early age, it's amazing I have even an ounce of musical taste.

Where in the hell is this going, you might ask? It leads me back to my original point somewhere in a preceding paragraph that I have better taste than you and I want to make sure you fully appreciate it considering the musical bankruptcy of my childhood. I, loyal readers, have appointed myself as your musical conscience. So, in the spirit of my newfound benevolence, I'm going to give 3 bands/artists that you should automatically hate just because they get on my nerves and I told you so.

The Pussycat Dolls

I never thought I'd say this, but this is a group that somehow manages to make the Spice Girls seem talented. If not for music videos, this band would never have received a recording contract, but the geniuses at the label must have been banking on an inevitable onslaught of MTVtastic video tit-baring and ass-shaking. Men are fucking dumb enough to buy albums made by hot women sheerly because hot women make them. (I've been known to have this same affliction regarding Lenny Kravitz, but that's not the point.) Women will buy this album because there's a lot of fucking stupid women out there. "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" is not empowering, it’s just whorish and probably the theme song of every strip club in America. I can go to the neighborhood titty bar if I want to watch whores lip-sync.


Uncle Kracker

Every time I hear his name I always think of that South Park song and a wide smile stretches across my face as I sing, "Shut Your Fucking Mouth Uncle Fucker." And then my smile quickly fades as I realize it's just that talentless fuckwit, Uncle Kracker. This is a man who is the seminal embodiment of everything I loathe about Redneck culture: Budweiser, Nascar and Jeff Foxworthy jokes. He probably says "Git R Done," too. From his name, I’ve always imagined him as the horrible warlord of a trailer park, a combination of some sort of crime boss and white trash dictator. "You can't empty that there chemical toilet behind the tire pile without getting it approved by Uncle Kracker, first.” Or, “Uncle Kracker sets the crank prices around here, boy- if you want to deal in this park you have to go through him.” And, if I wanted to listen to someone who had zero guitar skills and a voice that ranged from horribly flat to noticeably off-key, I would listen to an album that I recorded myself.

James Blunt

No, this is not the newest Hemp Crime fighter, but rather the annoying little bastard who sings that “Beautiful” song. If you’ve watched MTV once in the last month or listened to most any radio station, then you’re familiar with it. Its chorus goes:

You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don't know what to do,
'Cause I'll never be with you.

You know why she’ll never be with you, fucko? You sing whiny-ass bullshit to her like this. His voice sounds like Jon Mayer sucking on helium. It’s got that same, “I sound like I have a mouthful of shit” quality to it, but it’s higher pitched and annoyingly British. He’s also taken a page from the Fiona Apple School of Video Production and chosen to look especially sad and pensive while thoughtfully removing each article of clothing he’s wearing- Apparently losing your girlfriend necessitates that you lose all your clothing, as well. I hope she left you for another woman, you twat. The only nice thing that I can say about him is at least he’s not an American, we have provided enough embarrassment for ourselves by producing the likes of the above two.

That’s all for now. Being this mean is horribly draining and TRL is coming on in a few minutes.