The modern music industry is fueled by the crushed dreams of fame-hungry kids, vacant and empty and pretty, and willing to take their clothes off for the masses of glitter-zombie fans. See them, see the fans, like famished dogs, slobbering all over the golden idol lip-syncing above them. Watch their burnt-out flashbulb eyes plastered across the shiny covers of glossy magazines; watch them, splashed across the iPhone cases of a generation.
Sometimes it’s sad, to see a bunch of old white men who can’t sing exploiting the hopes of attractive young men and women, who can tremble their way through a few Top 40 Summer Hits and look good on the pencil-cases of a couple of million twelve-year-olds, following a place in a televised singing competition (that they have only won because of love-sick kids voting for them week after week). It’s sad to turn on the radio and hear that the song everyone’s listening to consists of one sentence chanted over and over again in a seductive, electronically manipulated tone of voice, to an over-produced, unoriginal beat.
Music has become, for many young celebrity wannabes, a quick gateway to the fame that they are starving for. Music is just something that they will do to achieve being a household name. I long for the day when I will turn on the radio and hear something raw and passionate, and well-written. I know that there are still unheard-of and fantastically talented musicians out there who put time and effort and heart into creating their music, and I just want them to know that I admire them, for not becoming another electronic bleeping in the ears of the dumbed-down masses.