so it’s the 21st century and we’ve just undergone a musical revolution. thousands and thousands of bands are becoming popular that would never have got a chance at exposure before due to the wonders of the internet. and all that shit. at this time, if any, you’d think that good, less-obviously mainstream bands would have a decent chance at getting into the charts. if not in the us, then in the uk, at least.

and yet.

an idiot could tell you that this decade has spawned the worst as well as the best bands and artists we’ve seen: for every say anything, there’s a brokencyde, and for every imogen heap, there’s an n-dubz. (omg just mah opinion no haterz pls.) but in the uk, a growing number of the more recently-emerging of these crappy artists seem to have been puked up by one of simon cowell’s televisual creations. now, i’m not going to spend the whole blog post whining pettishly about christmas number one and giving other artists equal opportunities and whatnot, like everyone else has been for weeks, because i’m not stupid. better-promoted artists are always going to sell more than ones that aren’t, even if they are the greatest band in the world.

really, i’m just going to whine about how much i think the whole  tv pop stardom thing is a foul concept. because i’m like the grinch, except for reality tv. or something.

let’s talk about x factor.

saturday evenings, i’m curled in the corner of my family’s living room with my netbook. there’s a cry of “x factor’s on!” and the scurrying of feet. the tv’s flicked on to itv. there’s a godawful advert for talktalk (whatever the hell that is) accompanied with a highly annoying snippet of music that will be played about forty-seven times during a single show, and therefore will wriggle its way into one’s brain and perpetrate torment for the rest of the evening. and there’s an announcement with a big booming voice and clips from last week’s show, and the animated seqence with the big red X zooming towards the earth appears. and it begins.

from the beginning, it’s completely full of exaggerations and overstatements. everything is incredible or absolutely amazing. each contestant refers to the experience as being beyond their wildest dreams, more amazing than they could ever have imagined. the four judges are unbearable–louis walsh, the narrow-minded and occasionally bigoted manager of formulaic irish boy bands; dannii minogue, mediocre singer whose opinion adds nothing to the show and whose song choices are frequently embarrassing; cheryl cole, slightly naive girls aloud star and tabloid favourite, supposedly present to give the show a modern edge, but really to act according to the whims of her puppeteer: cold, cynical and money-driven fourth judge, simon cowell.

the show begins with auditions–though not the very first auditions. the potential contestants turn up to an audition with different judges first, before a few are handpicked to be shown to the real ones, and to be displayed on our tv screens. many of these are bizarrely humiliating for the auditionees and painful for the viewers to listen to, so it can only be assumed that most of the auditions were picked on schadenfreude value rather than, y’know, actual value. the judges root out the worst ones and pick the ones with the vocal gymnastic ability.

some of these contestants seem fairly sweet kids who genuinely believe this is the way forward in a career in music, more fool them. the majority, though, are already singers, dissatisfied with working at holiday camps and doing gigs in bars, desperately seeking fame and fortune. they cry to the cameras, say, “i’ve wanted this more than anything, my whole life”, as though it somehow means more than the chance to be on tv, get stalkerazzi’d and have one hit with an over-the-top ballad that’s either by mariah carey or arranged so it sounds like mariah carey. the judges take full advantage of both types. phrases like “you would make a great recording artist”, and “there’s a gap in the market for someone like you”, and “if this song were to be released tomorrow, it would be a number one hit” are often heard; the songs themselves are deliberately and blatantly produced in order to gain popularity in america–well, would you have guessed leona lewis was english? when all of this is mixed with simon cowell’s proclamations that the show is only about “changing people’s lives”, the hypocrisy is a little sickening.

why do people watch it? the same reason anyone watches reality tv: to escape. it’s like watching a chick flick or reading a romance novel. it’s not real to the people at home. it’s not reality at all. the blue lights and pyrotechnics of the stage are otherworldly; dannii’s and cheryl’s masks of make-up, ridiculous hairstyles and “abstract” haute couture aren’t like anything you’d see on a regular basis. we become involved with the contestants’ lives on the other side of a screen, curled up and sipping hot beverages whilst they sing and weep and shake and beg for our vote in front of millions. we care what happens to them, but we don’t really, and when the judges give negative comments and their self-esteem crumbles and lives are ruined before our eyes, we shrug our shoulders.

why do i watch it? i know if anyone reads this, it’ll be the first question they ask. the truth is, whether or not this show is corporate bullshit, whether or not it’s orwellian and voyeuristic, this is our culture. this is what the 2000s will be remembered for. it’s everywhere. the winner of the x factor is on the ten o’clock news, it’s all over twitter’s trending topics. i’ve heard the phrase “who do you want to win x factor?” over the last few weeks more times than i’ve bothered to count. it’s the buzz, the build-up to the finals, the feeling that it’s not just you that’s experiencing this vicariously through the contestants–it’s everyone. joe mcelderry is going to get number 1 on christmas, the same as alexandra burke and leona lewis, and people are going to remember him as a contestant if not for his rendition of a shitty miley cyrus song. sure, the x factor is immoral and a little sick in a few ways, but hey, we’re humans. we like that kind of thing.

so: the x factor or the marketability factor? probably the second one, but you know what? nobody cares, and that’s the way it is always going to be.

- A

]]> http://mindlesslyme.wordpress.com/2009/12/14/music-through-a-keyhole/feed/ 0 A fob http://mindlesslyme.wordpress.com/2009/12/11/for-a-minute-there-i-lost-myself/ http://mindlesslyme.wordpress.com/2009/12/11/for-a-minute-there-i-lost-myself/#comments Fri, 11 Dec 2009 01:48:54 +0000 A http://mindlesslyme.wordpress.com/?p=11 ]]>

the young martyr, paul delaroche

don’t you think it’s funny how our priorities change as we get older? we’re always aware that some things exist but we don’t really care about them until we get to a certain age. like, when i was younger i cared most about having a pink lunchbox and was most scared of the green creature beneath my bed that would snatch me up if i arose after a certain hour. and then when i was a bit older i cared most about people caring about me, and was most scared that everyone knew what a loser i really am and i’d die without ever having been in love. and then, or rather now, i care most about doing as much with my life as i can, and i’m most scared of things ending.

so things change.

you’d think as humans we’d be able to tell which aspects of life are most important from the outset, seeing as we’re already equipped with the knowledge of how to survive. but i guess not. and things probably wouldn’t be as interesting if we did. the quantity of things i discover in a day is never unsurprising to me.

this is not me trying to be wise, ’cause i’m just a teenager and i’m sure thousands of people think the same thing every day. i’m just up too late.

i just. i don’t want to be scared. and i hate predicting which horror’s going to befall me in the next stage of my life. i don’t want to worry about getting old, or about my friends dying, or about having children, about missed opportunities, or whatever it is old people are scared of. i wish i could stay fifteen forever, curl up with only familiar miseries. is that a really unhealthy sentiment? yes, probably. but then again, it’s not like i could stop myself from growing.

well, jesus christ, i’m alone again
so what did you do those three days you were dead?
because this problem’s gonna last
more than the weekend
- jesse lacey

as i’ve found out, the best way to stop fearing is art. i told my mother yesterday, “art is either a form of escapism or catharsis.”

for me, it is. even if i’m writing about the worst things in the world, i’m not thinking about myself. i’m not staring at cracks in the wall and coiling up inside myself. i have a character, and he or she or ze or it is always going to be different from me, even if in the smallest of ways. if i’m angry, i can write a tragedy, i can write a murder, i can write about putting somebody in a giant blender. it’s all up to me. if i’m sad, i can write a poem, i can write a romance, i can write a happy ending. i can make stories be what life never is. i can escape.

i wonder if other people feel the same way. if you’re reading this and you’re not a tool, comment and talk to me.

to detract from the general awfulness that was this post, i’m going to post a live video for my favourite song of today. if you’ve never heard of brand new, you’re deprived. the devil and god are raging inside me might be my favourite album of the decade.

so i’ll go now. goodnight, sweet dreams and such.

- A

And then she thinks about the boy from the party, slippery fingers and sly glances, and maybe the boy’s grip tightens, fingernails dig deep in her skin, breath turns sour. She gasps, hears the yells of the men in the pub, feels the boy rutting up against her, and that’s when she struggles, flails her limbs, tries to escape, and she opens her eyes.

She’s alone. The clock informs her it’s 11.20. Her wardrobe is upright against the wall, her washing basket stands on the floor at the end of her bed, her light comes through the door from the living room. She extends an arm to touch the carpet, and it’s still soft beneath her.

She breathes in, counts five; breathes out, counts five.

this is an excerpt from my first attempt at national novel writing month. it’s only just now i’m starting to recover. the idea was to hit 50k in 30 days, and i succeeded, though it was more difficult than i expected. and i’ll do it again next year because i need that kind of push. also, writing a novel is a great excuse to put off homework.

though the site is already overflowing with hyperbolic motivational speeches and excitable, caffeine-fuelled would-be writers prepared to offer advice at 4.45 in the morning when you can’t decide which make of shoe suits your character best, i figured i’d offer some of my own thoughts on writing a novel in a month. even if you’ve heard it all before. this is my blog and i do what i want.

a socially awkward teenager’s 10 tips to novelling

1. this is not romantic. this is not what you see in movies. writers do not sit down and hammer out perfect lines without thinking. a lot of the time, it will be crap, and that is how it is meant to be. such is life.
2. 1667 words a day is not a lot. not at all. if you skip days, it builds up and it gets to you and you’ll start to believe you have much more to do than you really do. but believe me. you don’t. just keep writing.
3. there will come a point–usually around 20-30k–when you realise everything sucks. your plot is not working itself out like it’s supposed to. there are a million inconsistencies. let me tell you, though: a, it’s probably not as bad as you think, and b, even if it is, you can’t edit. you’ll just slow yourself down.
4. don’t cheat. i know, i know, the aim is just to reach 50k, etc., and i know lots of people disagree, but if you ask me you’re not being that creative if you’re putting in your eighth unnecessary sex scene or repeating words or bits of sentences for word count rather than effect. you’re going to have to edit it out later, so what’s the point? write something useful if you’re going to write at all.
5. it’s debatable whether homework is necessary or even advisable during this month.
6. the same could be said for sleep.
7. also, a tidy bedroom.
8. if you are editing too much, there are tools to help you. use them. i recommend darkroom or writeroom — will turn your screen black and allow you to bash your keys without distraction — or, if your procrastination level is such that you actually have to be threatened into writing, write or die. if none of this works, open up whatever word processor and change your font colour to match the screen, ie. white on white. then type and type and type.
9. don’t start reading books. this is a trap. read short stories if anything. if you read too much of a writer you might find yourself unconsciously imitating their style. also, time you spend reading could be spent working on your novel or procrastinating against working on your novel so don’t waste it.
10. tell someone else you’re novelling and get them to chide you when your word count is falling short.

yeah, this is good to keep in mind whether you’re writing in november or any other month. or, y’know, ever.

maybe i’ll have done some good for humanity with this post. maybe this generation’s greatest author will complete a novel because of me. probably not, but it’s always nice to imagine.

au revoir, mes amours.

-A