Sunday, January 24, 2010
Guitars and Perfume
The guitar gasps and howls furiously, as if it is in pain and objecting to something horrible. I suppose it might be. The entire place smells strongly of perfume. It is a big place, entirely outdoors, and smelling powerfully of expensive perfume. One can only imagine the volume of perfume necessary to achieve that strength of scent outdoors. I don’t smell like that. I smell like laundry detergent and cheap deodorant. The music is good, but feels uncomfortable in this environment. I suppose that is one of the variables that a recording artist cannot control. You can’t prevent your music from being played in expensive, upper middle class outdoor strip malls. You can’t keep your art out of the hands of snappy metrosexual hipsters. Fortunately, lack of control works both ways. Artists can’t protect their work from overpaid mediocre people, but those same mediocre people can’t keep me out of their expensive, upper middle class, outdoor strip malls. Of course they can remove me, but they’ll need a reason to do that. I’m not handing out any of those. I’m a nice man, educated and polite. However, that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t belong here. I look like a criminal and I smell generic. An unscented, walking eyesore, I’m here on behalf of the musicians whose work has been kidnapped from its proper context. I represent the truth.