On Modern Music

Music.
Sweet melding of melodrama with such simple words, a quirky shiny metaphor or two. Strong feelings set to an understated beat. Talk of losing hearts, losing minds, finding what you need just in time. Neon semi-teens with bright baggy jumpers and wide eyes singing of a higher mystery. First love shivers and what should be private, sacred is normalised, streamed out over the airwaves until a hundred strangers' houses ring with the tenor of one person's sentiments. Bands and artists so numerous you can attribute six different names to the thread of one voice, one snapshot of bubblegum chorus.
Rock and metal slip silently into the underground, bass whispering subtle shades of grey, or warp and betray their roots to fit into society's happy-colours-cute-as-a-cupcake sphere.
But soon the phase will pass and listeners will tire of homespun baby songbirds and fopps moaning adolescent heartache, and, suffering audio dyspepsia, begin to crave something more substantial. Then the era of real music shall rise again, and rock will roll on for time eternal.
Until then, my disciples of the dark, we must keep the faith.