Canary In A Coalmine

This rant about The Police on Lefsetz is an impassioned plea for a musical past that is imaginary, but oh so seductive. I would love to believe that my bleached blond childhood heroes could save the music industry from its current woes, but as I’ve been posting over the past week, the industry‘s doing just fine on its own. Or, perhaps, as the brilliant Vancouver-based hokum band the Molestics (holy where-are-they-now-moment!) once put it, “the industry doesn’t exist”.

The Police save the Grammys? Fuck the Grammys, let them die along with memories of little Webster sitting on Michael Jackson’s lap onstage in 1984, Nicole Ritchie’s begrizzled dad looking on with voyeuristic abandon. Any awards show that nominates no-talent Nelly Furtado for anything sucks balls, big time.

And anyway, the solo Sting has sucked godawfully since halfway through Nothing Like the Sun. I don’t expect much more than a medley of once-great songs. But if they’re any good (as in Bauhaus 1998 good, as against Bauhaus 2005 bad), maybe I’ll start getting excited. For now, I’m still enthralled with the grain and atmosphere of their 70s-80s recorded output, and I don’t mind if it stays that way.

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