“Electric guitars are proof that Satan loves us.” – Some Guy
I’m a whore for musicians, let me just get that out of the way. Some girls like painters or writers or construction workers; I like musicians, specifically guitarists.
I love hearing about guitars, watching guys tune their guitars, explaining why one is better than the other, why these pickups are better than those, what pickups even are, how this pedal favors this style of music, etc. I also enjoy hearing men talking about cars, motorcycles, beer, football, and all other things I don’t have a true interest in until some handsome, knowledgeable man begins telling me about them.
The way a guy plays guitar will give you a good idea how he behaves in bed. The faces he makes when he is in fierce concentration mode are analogous to how he will look at the height of orgasm. The dexterity of his hands as he rips up and down the fret board mimics the way he will touch you later, maybe in his car or the men’s room or in a broom closet behind the bar. But I’m a romantic.
I feel like there is a thread running through classical composers of yore leading right up to modern musicians and their groupie infested green rooms and idol worship. I imagine there were a lot of painted ladies in their tawdriest bustles waiting outside the concert hall for Mozart and Beethoven and Bach, looking for the source of that exalted sound, the kind of music that makes you feel high even when you haven’t done anything yet.
Music is the only thing even approaching spirituality in my depraved life, so when I witness people like Lil’ Wayne, a barely functioning human being, picking up a guitar and playing it badly and not caring, I became enraged. When I hear people declaring him to be a decent guitar player, I start looking for ammo.
There is a vast space between being an accomplished yet unspectacular guitarist and literally not knowing how to play. The least Wayne is a proud inhabitant of this musical dead zone. He is joined there by people like Madonna, Rihanna, and any other performer who thinks holding a guitar makes them look cool. Running around town with a flame thrower might make me look pretty bad ass, that doesn’t mean I should do it.
I blame reality TV. People were reluctant to put the work in before, now they are downright opposed. Why spend years of your life honing a craft when you can saunter up to some producer with your dick in your hand and an interesting back story? Why sing when you can auto tune? I’m going to hang myself with a guitar cord as a political statement.
Every teenager who’s gotten high in their room and discovered something about themselves while listening to whatever classic rock opus is indebted to the electric guitar. What kind of epiphany will you have listening to Blood on the Dance Floor? What kind of drug even goes with that parody of party culture and alternative lifestyles? Cat tranquilizer? Date rape pills? Dust Off?
As an aside, have you ever huffed Dust Off? I have, it’s nothing to be proud of. It was a confusing, painful experience that ended with my passing out mid-sentence and subsequently being groped by a desperate lesbian. That’s a pretty good summation of today’s musical output; dumb girl huffs Dust Off, gets felt up.
I’m tired of getting felt up by shitty musicians and record companies pushing their bland, hackneyed rock. I’m tired of trite, supposedly shocking acts, like Lady Gaga, who was conceived in a lab after the industry realized Marilyn Manson had turned into someone’s mother. I can’t abide all the shows dedicated to professional karaoke, looking to make stars out of fry cooks and accountants, all because they can carry a tune in the shower. Like Hicks said, I want to rock out to the artist that died in a pool of his own vomit, not the one who only became famous because they were pre-packaged for consumption by some record company.