The Man

When Lou Reed sang about 'the man', he was talking about a heroin dealer with poor timekeeping - one little discussed benefit of legalisation of drugs is the improvement in punctuality. The other man is JK's subject this week, he can take many guises but the ultimate incarnation is moobed uber git Simon Cowell who insists on displaying his hairy C-cups at every opportunity. You primates should be glad that the police are investigating the malicious article placed on Just Paste It, claiming contest rigging. Protecting the interests of a media mogul should always take precedence over investigating serious crimes against  little people, by which I don't mean Snow White's helpers but regular folks without expensive lawyers. 

In the sixties, there was a huge cultural rebellion against the man, fuelling one of the greatest artistic and cultural blooms of all time whose effects have changed lives forever. Incidentally if you don't know who or what the man is, then use the same question for working out who is the annoying friend in your social group. If you're unsure, bad luck, it's you. Likewise, if you don't want to fight the man, you either are him,  one of his minions or you buy what he's pushing. Of course, not everything the sixties producing was worth keeping, tie dye shirts for example are only acceptable clothing if you and all your friends take a lot of acid or your name is Hugo, your Dad is a hedgie and you're taking a Gap Yah. Yet the music was a force for change, escapism, love, contemplation, a chance for all of us to connect with something other than spreadsheets, car finance and fitted kitchens. Music was magical. Then came Simon Cowell and the juggernaut of X-Factor, crushing all before it. 

JK blames the Great British Public because when you were offered a pact with the devil you signed on the dotted line, except in this case the devil doesn't have all the best tunes, he has housewife friendly crooning that sounds worse than the foxes fucking in my garden. (Fox love making must be the most unpleasant sound on the planet, second only to the second Hearsay album. Then again, maybe the foxes like it, the noises I mean, not the album, they might be dumb animals, they're not completely stupid). Perhaps you did not realise that the price of something decent to watch on Saturday night was the destruction of music as an art form, the small print was very small and it was only a talent show. And now look what you've unleashed, a vampire has been invited over the cultural threshold sucking the blood out of music's beating heart, leaving only zombie performers - warbling meat puppet karaoke for the brain dead. The music business has managed to achieve its long term aim of removing the music bit, much like Hollywood has abandoned film making in favour of extended merchandise adverts. At some point, the studio executives are going to reach the bottom of the comic book stack in their offices and start making films again. Thor was that really necessary, seriously, was it the last in the pile under the Green Hornet? Directed by Brannagh....Ken, I hope the fee was worth your soul. Although Pirates of the Caribbean was based on a theme park ride, so we may yet see Big Thunder Mountain in the cinemas. Alternatively execs could cut to the chase and make a film based on MacDonald's Happy Meals about the adventures of a crime fighting piece of reconstituted chicken, called Nugget and his telepathic milkshake sidekick, Strawberry, a pot of sugar and fat that can read minds. Hold that thought, I must email my agent, I feel a film pitch coming on. 

There's no point blaming Mr Cowell, you might as well blame a shark for turning up its nose up at a lentil bake. This mess is a collective cluster fuck, caused by our overwhelming desire to all watch the same TV show and talk about it at water coolers at work. In fairness, Brits tend to talk about it in pubs or loitering outside reception having a cigarette,  yet the point still stands. You don't have to ring the premium numbers, you don't have to vote for these bland balladeers, you don't have to watch. What about having sex with your partner or for singletons, yourself, it's less degrading. Failing that, rent a film, switch to Michael Macintyre's Roadshow on Catch Up TV if you insist, he's a nice chap and there's lots of comedians on it who have noticed men and women are different. But, if there's any part of you that loves music as an art form, if your skin comes up in goosebumps when you hear a favourite song, if you believe music is more than something playing in hotel lobbies to keep the guests non-violent, it's not too late. 

Don't tune in. Don't turn on. Switch Off. Save yourself 40 pence per minute. Save music. 

Peace out.