The Savage Beast is Still Unsoothed – Fiction

The Savage Beast is Still Unsoothed

by Reverend Randall Tin Ear
illustrations by Tom Powers

I had not planned to pen for Lollipop a piece about music, but when a particular idea came into my tiny mind – one that has, actually, long been an ideal – I could not ignore it, and like the gnat that such a sentiment may seem, it is one that, by acknowledging its existence, I shall soon see flying ’round your own head and bothering you.

To be sure, music plays a large part in what I do with my life, although I usually care to talk little of it or its respective effect upon me. I often receive an average of fifteen compact discs per day, which is not too amazing when one considers that my name has been passed around like the school floozy during the winning football team’s post-game orgy. Everyone gets a piece of me, and I end up with the headache that is a result of having my box stuffed with the product of too many hard-up entities whose efforts would otherwise be ignored. And so it should go without saying that I am not only terribly up to date with most of the popular music that is pushed upon the not-so-willing masses, but am well-rounded in most fields of music; yet as I am addressing those whose lives revolve around music, I felt that I should clarify what a person of average intelligence would inherently comprehend.

However, long before I dove ignorantly into the self-publishing world of fanzines, its in-fighting and the occasional fuck that has become part of my increasingly insular world, I listened to a wide variety of music, and so it is that, just as I once took for granted that being adopted was nothing out of the ordinary, so I expected people to naturally incorporate several styles of music into their audio portfolios, especially as they grew older and “wiser.” Too, I believed it practical to be fastidious in one’s selection within genres, for adherence to a type of music regardless of the talent (or lack thereof) was as silly as the aforementioned straight ticket.

And once again, I am brazenly smacked with the realization that my naivete is as fresh and wholesome as it was the day that my other end was smacked.

Whether it be the snobby olde school WASPs of classicists (whose staunch repertoires never stray outside of ancient, baroque, classical, romantic and modern – modern as in Stravinsky, Schöenberg, etc) or the old skool hardcore/hip hop or 1970s pre-new wave punk or what have you, too many people are stuck in a rut that is symbolic of the rest of their lives: they adhere to one party line, and no matter how daft or deadly or downright ridiculous the consequences may be, they listen to what is fed them. What few influences of outside styles of music – and thusly, culture – that trickle through the dam’s faulty foundations are often the thinner, easily skimmed aspects (clothes and other highly visible and equally shallow fashions), and it is upon such minutiae that the opinions of others’ music are based, and so it is that the sheltered minds are easily swayed for the fact that they know so little about that which they are told as well as of those whom tell them.

Convoluting the big picture are the various attempts by all of the opposing, ignorant factions to criticize and define each others’ schools of “art” and “thought.” Fanatics not to be bothered by facts, they race headlong like raging, mindless bulls, putting down entire avenues of music about which they know nothing significant while fervently purchasing every band that attempts to play the one narrow sub-sub-genre of sound to which they so feverishly subscribe. In many of the cliques, every version of every mix as well as every radio promo and imported recording is often sought out as if each recording is but one more piece of a bloated holy grail that, even long after the artist’s death, continues to swell in size! And yet there is always time to offer a derogatory comment on someone else’s inane pursuit of every differently fashioned rendering available, with no thought to the lack of knowledge on the accuser’s account.

Were people to ferret out the crap that comprises the majority of each and every style of music as well as each styles’ various spin-offs, perhaps they would see to seriously exploring the many other types of music that are available, and eventually build up a library of several kinds of music within which they have only what they consider the most favourable of each form, then, maybe, the manner with which they choose their musical artists would influence the way that they live and perceive the world and all within, thus creating a slightly more pleasant planet.

But I have wasted enough time attempting to teach you morons to breach your mealy-minded milieus. Having at one time allowed various acquaintances and friends to rifle through my records, I eventually learned. Punk rock brings on a barrage of “you listen to that crap?!” retorts; the basic response to my “classical” music is that I am attempting to be a highbrow snob; my heavy metal albums elicit snorts of disgust; Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and their Seventies cohorts’ recordings garner comments about my being a hippie; and industrial/noise often brings me round to enduring the initial “crap” remark, the banality of such opinions being of no surprise, as the critics are often unable to break out of their singular style of music, let alone conceive any innovation in the art of insults.

You are welcome to reach me via LOLLIPOP, or, for a quicker response, write to me directly at:
Rev. Randall Tin-ear ANGRY THOREAUAN MagaZine POB 3478 Hollywood CA 90078
and be sure to enclose an SASE (or IRC should you be outside of the USA) if you want a reply; otherwise I shall simply read and file away your letter.