cleavage

i like music. i like the way it turns a tiny room into boundless fields of green and gold, the way it turns the acid sky bright blue and sends a fresh breeze through my air-conditioned soul. music is beyond sound, beyond words, beyond language. it’s the drip drop on a rainy day, the flip flops in the mud, the sepia memory of my mom in the kitchen telling me to wash my hands. music is my fist on concrete, my tears on the floor and my blood on an innocent blade. music is the peace, violence, grace and disgrace, innocence and evil in me. i love music.
and yet there are things i will never listen to, things in the record store that make me cringe. cover albums by old has-beens, more cover albums by new contest-winning “starlets”, and yet more cover albums by actors and actresses who think they can sing. covers are sometimes cool. they have their ups. but a whole album of covers betrays a sad reality – it’s much easier to be a “singer” than a musician.
and call me shallow, or judgemental, or a butthead (call me whatever you want, actually, i don’t really care) but there are some records i wouldnt even *think* of touching. for one thing, any artist who feels the need to expose some cleavage on an album cover to sell some records should seriously reconsider career options. secondly, artists who sing about little more than cleavage and such, shouldnt even be called artists. and never, *ever* will i even touch a record of “artists” whose names contain words like “babes”, “pussycat” or “sam milby”.