Show Business is Dead and It’s Not Going To Heaven Anytime Soon

             Pity the student who through diligent practice, innate talent and desire receives a scholarship to the Juilliard School of music. True, a dream has come to fruition, but with this dream comes hurdles, 1) mastering the nuances of the chosen instrument, and 2) having the ability to negotiate the politics of playing for a symphony orchestra. I am speaking of supremely gifted people, men and women who define themselves through their art. It is the oxygen that they breathe and without it they would surely smother.

            Show business is dead and is not going to heaven anytime soon. After all, how can it with Hell pulling out all of the stops for its inclusion? There used to be a time that in order to be in show business successfully a certain level of expertise had to attained. Would be performers learned how to sing, dance, juggle, play an instrument or tell funny stories, some became proficient in all and because of their versatility widened the possibility of getting booked.

            Today, the landscape has changed greatly as to what the public is willing to accept as entertainment. I never thought I’d see the day where the sordid lives of the addicted, obese or fetishistic would qualify as entertainment. How low is the collective esteem that a show about the sad travails of teen moms, shrieking Botox addicts or busted out, bitch jockin’ rappers become dominant forces?

            Where is the empathy for these creatures? Instead, we line up to get their autographs because we believe their appearance on a television screen separates them from the rabble and makes them appear heavenly as if the gods anointed them with super powers. Yes he’s an illiterate hillbilly, but he’s on TV as opposed to me who’s not.

            Corporations, never at a loss to fill a void, know this since they are one dimensional in their pursuit of profit. Without a population with a spirit of inquiry this steady diet of half-baked weirdoes, shameless narcissists and consummate nature fakers, public taste becomes one dimensional too. Once this happens narrowed down experience becomes the norm as the onslaught of fantasy and comic book films is testament.

            Corporate America’s weather vane is too sensitive to allow this to pass so it doubles down on what they will allow us to consume and what they will allow us to consume is assuredly sanitized for their protection. Real strife is eliminated. The airwaves are cleansed of the darker sides of humanity. Nuance and gray are not permitted. When surface and artifice are presented as reality, life becomes virtual. A cash cow dies when a new cash cow appears on the green horizon.

             It takes 20 years to master a musical instrument like the flute. Flutists do it in hope that one day they’ll fulfill a childhood dream of playing in one of the world’s great orchestras. The odds of this happening are astronomical, yet the artistic need to create and interpret beauty makes it worth it to them and certainly to the public if the public would only open its eyes and ears once again.

            Fuck that! Master the skin flute. Have your audition reel on the Internet and in a day or so you’ll be sifting through offers.

            Kanye West is the quintessential 21-century artist/narcissist. He can’t sing or play an instrument. If rap hadn’t been invented he’d be a pimp in some other industry. His talent is understanding the consumer base through savvy branding and positioning. For a supposed genius his taste in women is also very suspect unless Kim Kardashian, to reference the great Woody Allen short story, is The Whore of Mensa. My feeling it’s more likely a black thing, that another black man has a taste for the BIG ASS. Or to quote comedian Emo Philips, “Her ass was so big only one of her moons had an atmosphere.”

            Take heart. Forget about talent. You don’t need any. Get out the auto tune and sing! I ran one of my farts through auto tune and this week it’s #6 on the Billboard Top 200.