or
How to Write a Music Review
(Philip Chevron)
***
Music journalism, you’d think it’s the job of everyone’s dreams. Bullshit. Bloody drudgery, that’s what it is. Listening to squeaking amateurs who try to brainwash you with their idiotic lyrics. Tormenting your ears to the point of going deaf. Nearly being trampled under the feet of crazed young psychos at what they call "concerts".
He pulls the blinds to shield himself from the merciless sunlight, then stares at his table. In the only clear spot among the scraps of paper, dirty plastic cups, dry pens and empty boxes of mints, a new CD lies, with a small yellow memo paper attached to it. Review this by noon, the message reads.
Damn. A thousand blacksmiths hammer in my head, you don’t suppose me to add some other bloody noise to the cacophony, do you? Go to hell.
He plops himself on the rickety chair. Picks up a glass from the table, smells it. The stale stench of old beer only deepens his misery. He wearily stands up, goes to the corridor and pours a plastic cup of coffee from the machine. Trying to make himself invisible from the people he passes, he retreats back to his office, back to his chair. He takes a mighty gulp of the black brew, nearly choking on it, and picks up the CD again. A debut album by an Australian folk singer, the message on the yellow paper continues.
Some fucking folkie. Campfires, where have all the flowers gone, green meadows, bold rebels, white sheep, black sheep. Bleah. What have I done to deserve this?
He considers quitting his job – just like he does at least five times a week. He considers throwing the CD deep into his drawer, pretending he has never seen it. What? You’ve left a CD on my table? That’s strange indeed. Maybe the cleaning woman pinched it? I heard her hum some awfully folky tune over the vacuum cleaner the other day... He considers swapping the review-writing duty with the sports editor in exchange for some free concert tickets. But then he sighs, takes another gulp of coffee, which is quickly turning cold, and plunges into the cruel, demanding work.
Well, mate, let’s have a look at this opus of yours...
He examines the artwork on the cover.
A wave of anger sweeps over the journo and he hurriedly scribbles a title for his review. Fishy Effort. He looks at it and decides he likes it. The three lettes "f" give it an almost poetic quality. He smirks to himself and turns the CD over.
Destitution Road... Look, mate, it’s me who is destitute here. And abused and overworked and everything. So don’t claim it for yourself.
In Aimsir Bhaint... What? What crazy language is this, Chinese?! Ah, the guy wants to be "in", to give his effort a "world music" flavour. To be trendy. Damn him.
Catalpa? This sounds Spanish for a change. Yes, an ethno boy. Embracing the whole world, absorbing all the influences to mix an indigestible hotchpotch.
Whiskey Yer The Divil... "Divil", ha ha. On top of everything, he cannot spell. But whiskey... that’s not a bad idea...
The journo takes a ring binder from his shelf and reaches behind it. Raising a small cloud of dust, he pulls out his office bottle. Empty. Maybe a few last drops at the bottom, but nothing more. He eyes it wistfully, then puts it back, finishes his cold coffee and turns his attention to the CD again.
Rose of Allendale... Dark Molly... Looks like we have a romantic here. It’s a wonder the disc isn’t all sticky with sugar.
The Pound a Week Rise... Yes, give me just that! Don’t bother me with stupid CDs, better give me a rise!
Is Iomaidh Coiscéim... I will break my tongue over this gibberish. How come he didn’t break his fingers when typing it? Well, maybe he did.
The Ballad of Accounting... Accounting?! Here we are. He’s an accountant. Hums romantic tunes while obediently checking balances for his bosses – thus spoiling both.
Whiskey on a Sunday... Hey, stop tormenting me! You do this on purpose, you know that I’ve run out of my supplies and need a drop of the good stuff desperately... No, I’m not going to read this any further or I’ll get mad with thirst.
Disgusted, the journo tosses the hapless CD away and switches on his comp. Waiting for the old, tired machine to start, he compiles the review in his head, so when he can finally open the text editor, pre-prepared sentences spill from his fingers smoothly and easily.
Fishy Effort
This new offering at the music market, a debut album from a new talent from Australia, surely has very high ambitions. Trying to mix various influences from all parts of the world while staying deeply rooted in the folk genre, and to show his interest in global problems such as the environmental issues, while not forgetting about basic human emotions, the songwriter strives to create a sparkling, colourful cocktail for every taste. However, the result is half-hearted at best.
Following the current world / ethno music fashion, he draws inspiration from virtually everywhere, intertwining exotic eastern motives with hot southern rhythms. While this "recipe" might have been refreshing when it appeared for the first time, it has been worn out by constant use, and it is no longer enough, unless the musician manages to approach it in a new, original way. Too often it is just an attractive, fashionable cover to hide the emptiness below, and this album is no exception. Foreign motives are haphazardly thrown into old-fashioned folk tunes, like a glittering jewellery used to decorate an old, worn blouse. Exotically-sounding titles do not suffice to bring a breath of fresh air to the stale folk world.
Lyrically, the album examines three recurring topics: money, drinking and the old favourite – love. Although one cannot help wondering where the money-obsession stems from, the first topic at least brings in some playfulness, openly and shamelessly declaring what’s the centrepoint of the lives of many, reminding of the classic "Money, Money, Money" by ABBA. It also provides at least some flashes of originality – how many songs with "accounting" in the title have you heard? The drink theme sticks to the usual "drinking alcohol is bad but I cannot refrain from it" cliché, and the love songs virtually drop saccharine, using the most hackneyed phrases such as comparing the objects of love to flora species.
To sum up – better go fishing into different waters. A fair advice given both to music lovers and to the songwriter.
The journo reads his creation and a satisfied smile spreads over his face. Not bad. He is proud of himself that he managed to make it sound so profound and so metaphoric. His eyes fall on the CD once again. Shouldn’t he listen to a couple of songs at least? Just to confirm his opinions? His headache has got a bit better, but listening to some crap could worsen it again. Nah, he won’t risk it. He looks at his wristwatch. Plenty of time till noon. And he won’t hand out his masterpiece any sooner because they could pile him up with some other work immediately. He’ll wait and take a well-deserved rest.
He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes and dreams about more-than-pound-a-week rises, rose-like girls and whiskey on every day of the week...
pic © unknown