There was an ad on the telly a little while ago. No doubt it was for laptops in appealing pastel shades to match your irises or some ugly fucking hatchback that will change the way you look in the mirror or a mobile phone provider who'll wake you every morning with an entertainment news feed and a month's free trial on a Tetris sim. I don't fucking know. I had my arse in the air and my head buried so far between my sofa cushions that I could have been a gigantic type of couch fungus.
The Swearing Gentleman, never a man to take undue advantage, said, "Who's that singing on that there ad? It sounds like Mother Mother."
"It is NOT Mother Mother. Mother Mother are not sharing a single contracted lung. Mother Mother don't harmonise with the strength of a catfish flipping up a dirt track in the Andes. Mother Mother don't sound like a health minister just sat on them."
"Sounds a bit like them," Swe.Ge mumbled, sulkily.
Regardless of whether or not you have any notion who Mother Mother are, you surely cannot disagree with me when I state that the trend for using breathy, twee soloists to plug your lifestyle-lite product is an abomination onto the lord God almighty, and also my ears. How could a song featuring some woman-child chirruping, "beep beep beep" make you buy an Audi for any other reason but for driving it into the ear-clogging bliss of a very deep lake? And yes, I'm so fucking pleased laptops come in mood-matching hues, but if you're green today you'd be best advised to see a witchdoctor about reversing the reanimation of your corpse. If only I'd known that fucking Ballygowan ad with that shite-trickle of a David Bowie cover was but the tip of the iceberg! Such knowledge might have convinced me to switch off the telly, to stick to single-player RPGs and sad, solo sessions on Singstar Anthems. But instead I suffered through that Vaseline ad with the female vocalist clicking her tongue like an experimental psychiatry enthusiast and that absolute abortifacient which is the soundtrack to the Ford Kuga ad. Dongedy dong yourself, Ms. avant-garde chanteuse! Dongedy dong yourself into the nearest library and look thee up some lyrics! They're mighty things put together with WORDS which attempt to transfer some sort of EMOTION and MEANING from the ARTIST to her AUDIENCE. I don't KNOW WHY I'm typing like THIS now. We'll have to put it down to a twitching rage brought on by cutesy, postmodern shorts which, after all, only want to inspire your itchy credit card finger.
Now don't get me wrong. I rather like music. Ocassionally I even search out new bands who might not sound like Queens Of The Stone Age, and bop my head encouragingly. But diddly mush or acapellas as art would never, ever float my boat. They wouldn't even drag it an inch along the seabed. I mean, can you imagine walking out to a full stadium, looking at your adoring public with their lighters aloft, and launching into something wispy and peaceful like a whale song as translated by R2D2? For fuck's sake. FOR FUCKETY FUCK'S SAKE! Piss off with your earnest suggestions to ad execs, you record companies and ears-for-hire! If I hear one more ad soundtrack starting with some elven interpretation of what copulating raindrops might sound like, I'll absolutely kill someone. Probably Claudia Carroll or someone. I dunno. She does have very annoying hair.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
9 comments:
A little question on editing etc.
Is the bit about your arse waving with head buried between cushions, joined to the undue advantage bit.
For there is not a man in this world, no matter how much of a gent, nor a woman that does not know the effect. Undue, my aunt fanny. You need to up his Zinc intake.
Indeed it is. Every word there for a reason, my friend. Even though it might not apparently be obvious to anyone, least of all me.
I'll have you know that the Swearing Gentleman would duel with you over that comment. Glove-slapped, you'd be.
I love it when I inadvertently give you an idea...
There is an awful lot of them lispy young wans who sigh wistfully and call it singing. I'd have them listen to Bessie Smith for a day, loud, via headphones. It would get the wet off their vocal chords.
I blame Jose fucking Gonzalez.
It's true, y'know. Jose Gonzalez is the daddy of 'em all.
He's Swedish too. They're very wishy-washy up there.
Claudia Carroll deserves your threats of death. And for more reasons than her hair. Chief among these more reasons is an electric blue bodysuit which she wore to a party in 1996.
I've said too much.
I remember when 1996 was the fashionable present. Now I don't hesitate to believe that someone would have worn something as heinous as an electric blue bodysuit all the ways back then.
I never thought I'd have a nostalgic decade of my very own. That youth thing really slithers through one's fingers, what what.
Gimme, did you?
DID YOU?
CONFESS!!!
Post a Comment