I live in a small house. High on a forested mountain. It rarely snows during the winter. I drive long distances to see the entire country sometimes. I eat alone in vast naturistic scenarios. However, I have a deeply loving partnership. I can only live openly as sex is a constant and powerful urge in my life.
The conversation always goes the same way. Our friends, our family, they eventually say something along the lines of “You guys are pretty good, I bet if you wrote songs that were more mainstream, you could make it.”
First of all, that’s assuming we haven’t “made it” and what is “making it” anyway? So often in the music industry, we are constantly aware of the ones who have “made it.” Their videos are full of gold chains, models, fancy cars. They make money hand over fist and have crews of a hundred people making sure their every photo, blog, article, makes them appear to be super human. Yet their songs? Their lyrics? Almost always the same regurgitated fluff.
Music is dying. Slowly, but it is. I don’t want to be one of those close-minded people who lives in the glorious pinnacle of the past, but we can all agree that the quality of the music industry has declined intensely since the second half of the past century. Today’s standards of what is labeled as art are worrying. Why do we live in such an artistic wasteland, you might ask?