By Jason Williamson
Where do you draw the line with shit music? The type that has snared, fed and pummelled the carcass of the originator with little or no regard for the millions of nutritious particles that flow through and enrich the imposter’s systems as it stands gimping at itself whilst flogging the fucking idea to death in front of yapping idiots. What does shit music make you feel like as it churns itself around your ear’s belly. The thing I hate most about expressing myself on this issue are the terrible hurdles, the justification, the ‘points to back it up’. It’s hard to explain a lot of the time and you find yourself retreating even if you feel you have a point. A simple “look it’s shit”, just won’t do in the eyes of the dominators. The gatekeepers want intelligent answers, burrowed chasms of justification that are wholly unrealistic, really. You are just simply not climbing the fuckin’ wall are ya. The exposé never gets written. I don’t feel intelligent most of the time because more often than not I’m full up on dogshit, swimming against a current consisting of Unleaded and Diesel, daylight robbery and Tron-like capitalist rhythms, neon movements, road paint, red, amber and green. I’m laden with lack of anything in the linguistically equipped department, or at least this is what I tell myself. I cannot supply the content, the proof, philosophy, ability to reference history, a frame. So, if the dominators don’t get it, don’t get what they want, well it just gets fucking tense. In my mind it gets awkward. I get thrown against the wall like a shop entrance piss in-between bars. The fury, the dismissal from the sub operators aimed at my short-sighted perception thunders me into some kind of vague submission. Presently this current crop of white indie bands is disgusting. Aping the struggle of existence like it’s an exercise they fucking hate doing at the gym or something. Or a brief comfortable moment of dour drunken reflection in a cosy bar. Contemplation in Business Class.
Generally speaking the shit heads are no longer allowed to win when they powerfully express themselves because the ideas are too good, too lethal. No, we are given one option: “Talent contest on TV or fuck off”. So what happens is that the work originated by the shit-head is closed down but its essence is taken, passed on to the acceptable board of dominators where it is cleansed of any thrust but retaining its original casing. And it is in this exterior casing where the idealess find kudos because the dumb crowd buying into it feels just enough affinity with the basified stolen property that it hurls a mass of manic confirmation back to the acceptable dominator. The acceptable board of dominators cannot carry the full weight of the shit-head’s message, as attractive as that might be, because essentially they just don’t get it. The acceptable classes know Pain, they know Isolation, Failure, Depression, Hopelessness, of course they do. But largely speaking, and in my experience, they cannot evoke the validity of it as well as the shit-head can. They do not stare into the curb, into hardcore and cement, because the acceptable classes, the dominators, possess an inbred happiness and an order which the shit-head doesn’t have. The open smiling feeling that falls onto my lawn along with the frost in the morning is as characteristic of the acceptable classes domain as their first in the queue dibs at being noticed in the professional world. I say ‘my lawn’ because I have finally managed to achieve nice living off my own back. I dwell in the area of the acceptable classes now and I like it, I’ve had a taste before in so called ‘mixed’ areas where Class collides but this is something else entirely because there is no mixed bag. Its straight up pure-bloods and new money. I like the “hellos” to strangers who in turn wish me a “good morning” when I walk my dogs. The acceptable classes are generally not prepared to engulf the damning path that leads to real creative skill because they don’t have to. This is because their audience doesn’t know what decent shit is and also in a lot of cases their routes are easier to access – it’s just a matter of reaching for the top and if the money eyes the project with interest then a plan is hatched and the dominators collide, causing a massive boom of limp wank-dom. A blowing belch of guff weighted bollocks.
There are parts of Loski’s long player ‘Call Me Loose’ that demonstrate the pain of being trapped in nothingness so well that you are virtually straddled with shock and yet why is he not championed? The misogyny and homophobia are alienating to me but these are stems of fear and anger hanging from the bigger beast, the wrath as a reaction to a life that is clamped. Why am I told some white indie band from the sock department in Selfridges are ‘Vital’? It clashes so much that I like to visualise the absolute hell of the dead landscape by piecing together and visualising in my mind any current slab of political corruption, together with a televised performance from an inferior musical act straight out the sock dept. who carries the arm band of the lobbyist. It makes for depressing results. Like a rubber comedy chicken that turns on itself.
I hated the notion of Class a while back. I still do. I hated the fucking long drawn out presence it has on chapter after chapter. I got sick of it being thrown onto me and my partner in music. You can’t even take a poo without some fucker accusing you of using better loo roll. But when you see the system’s food chain in action it then takes a different motion. You start to get really pissed off about it, it’s like daylight robbery done by complete idiots. Wimps and fucking tossers. It’s like being creatively robbed by Tim who worked at Wilkos who you knew was an absolute fucking idiot as he stacked and replenished shelves so brilliantly and believed so madly in the idea of absolutely nothing to then go on and win big.
Of course, this piece is full of holes. I mean it could be literally torn apart by whoever, but you know that’s the thing isn’t it. You need to penetrate the operator’s defences, create the exposé and damn the walls of the mediocre thief. The operators tell us its better to write nursery rhymes bathed in virtue than it is to write about buying new trainers. What’s wrong with rapping about new trainers? Do you expect these people to sing pleasing heart felt compositions about the degenerated infrastructure? Compositions that fit your idea of struggle from the comfort of your upgraded life? Struggle isn’t a political book you pick up to marvel at the darkness of its content. Most of the time it is things you cannot identify with. Male bravado, distain for all and tales of consumerism are not the corrupted wrong route in rap. It perfectly translates the hopelessness of the box to me.
Jason Williamson is one half of Sleaford Mods.
Photo: Tom Medwell
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