Musical consumerism is deadly business. I can think of little else these days. I see reality TV shows and some I watch eagerly and there is a moment when I think I can blog about them. Later I act on that impulse to my discredit. Even a reality television show perpetuates musical consumerism in some small way, funding hacks and their inane side-projects for one possible example. I am confident the world would be a worse place without professional musicians. There is really no choice, and therefore the best choice is pretending that you don't have a choice. Hence Prefab Sprout, who are so intelligent as to be tunefully respectful of your lack of choice.
When at least one part of a song is done compellingly it is interesting at least. Novelty of course is important, but not always crucial. Authenticity is severely hyped at times, and there's almost no point in wanting to win that fight – it must be regarded as unessential, because even good songs get played out, and you've got to replace them with some tune or lyric that sticks in your mind. Obviously a good mix of tune and lyric are necessary, and which is more important is subjective if not rhetorical.
The thing about how I do intros is that I really don't know and I am not the sort to try and sculpt my writing, quite clearly, so it spirals into madness. Of course that sort of primordial state is exactly what music is about, so maybe you could call my style impressionistic. I would say so, if only for the simple joy of having some definition to elaborate. I was thinking I should eventually get to the point of talking about Prefab Sprout, but I had to cleanse the aural palate and got lost in other things.
That's the main thing about them. You need to detoxify your system with something else that has actual moments of silence, and more than exhaled lyrics. Then of course there are the songs that you play out of habit out each album and these are the only you listen to, for weeks, months at a time. Then you get a sense of nausea from the ad absurdum playing of the songs. But part of the illusion is habit, and part of the musical habit is seeking fresh pasture.
Habits also clearly age at different rates. For some people the same song is always welcome, year after year. Others fall into passionate but doomed obsessive cycles. I've hoarded an entire box of CDs, so I do know some things about musical consumerism. Not that I've been at a record shop in ages. People still wander around with headphones, so I know music is still listened to, and I can almost restrain the impulse to presume they are listening to weak shit. I will return to greatness some day.
In the final analysis I suppose everyone knows what to expect from pop music. They'd be fools not to. And I do know that talking about music is stupid, but I am really trying to sell Prefab Sprout. They've proved something about 80s pop that is obviously impossible to explain rationally. They're not really even worth hyping that much. It all leads nowhere. I might as well start posting the entire lyricography of the Beastie Boys in hopes of gaining a following.
Say I were to mix the words exclaim and explain; would 'explaim' suffice? Portmanteaus are cooler than music. Kicking language around is cooler than making portmanteaus. Being cool isn't important, but since kicking language around is ubiquitously uncool, it is worthy. Because I think like this I come to the realization that I am ill suited for musical criticism or really any sort of honest work, or perhaps even anything – it is really just fear or apprehension. Is it?
So I listen to the band best paraphrased as Bland Pablum. I make a weak joke to end the discursion and crumple the can, finally satisfied with a blog post with at least one compelling thing in it, which reminds me a little of some of the songs I enjoy listening to most and maybe the habit isn't so bad as I thought.
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