The higher difference between a well written song and that of a math problem or riddle appreciated by few and held high among the majority that scuffs it. Where does the tangent of entertainment end and the construction detour of rhythmic changes and noise begin? Is there a middle ground, and if so, is that where all the best music lives? Does that make it harder on any artist to find that ground? To not be too liberal as to shove away an audience or too restrictive to never expand and try new avenues within their maturing skills? Who's to blame for that? Is it an audience whose core is made up of like-minded individuals who aren't always open-minded? There is always room for anarchy in our most anxious of nerves and methodical undertones of violence - physical anger asserted after mental frustration. We love to watch shit blow-up and the idea of minor destruction never completely leaves our subconscious after childhood. We think about it our every day actions: laughing at a person fall over, watching the news, all those blooper shows. What is it about some ambiance and noise that is attractive to some, and repulsive to others. But if you layer the sort of annoyance in a lush tune, you can sometimes sell it as artful pop? Or again, should that be in the consideration of "best music" found on a specific medium of measurement between harmonic and apocalyptic. What's harder to count? What's harder to hold - tension between bars and measures - or a constant rhythm across a bright chorus? Because of the subjectivity of music, there's no real answer - but I'm beginning to think we overlook the value of one song's point versus a "new favorite artist" (often read: hype machine) who is exploring something mocked only years earlier for something that's not that forward thinking still to people currently. Anyway, I'm sitting there eating a burger - drunkenly scrolling through social feed - and in seconds I'm watching Refused - almost a decade after hearing them - on a major Late Night show. It's all on my fucking phone. I had an aneurism, a hobo revived me for some change to get a burger.
I can't make this shit up.... well, most of it anyway.