Radio Killed the Radio Star

Today began like any other day off from work. I savored the luxury of sleeping in (a hefty dose of NyQuil made that very doable), ingested a massive bowl of oatmeal accompanied with coffee, began to organize my massive heap of laundry to do for the week, made my bed, and clipped my toenails. Everyone knows that the best thing to accompany menial tasks like that is music. I received the unfortunate diagnosis last week from the "geniuses" at the Apple Store on Fifth avenue that my ipod is indeed dead. This is an unspeakably tragic event in the life of Chelsea. My rides on the subway have become far more unbearable than one could ever imagine, walking from point A to point B on this dense little island is more sobering than I'd like it to be, and I until I replace ipod #1, I'll be unable to listen to its shuffle on my wi-fi stereo speaker.

Due to the grief that I've endured from this tragic death, my head hasn't exactly been in the right place. When one is frazzled with emotional anguish and a strong sense of loss, they tend to lose touch with logical thought. Ergo, I did something unspeakably dangerous today. More dangerous than tap-dancing on the tip of the Empire State building, having unprotected sex with Courtney Love, snorting lines of coke off of a toilet seat in the bathroom of a Ray's Pizzeria, or screaming racial epithets in the middle of a NAACP convention. I...Chelsea Alana Ward...attempted to listen to FM radio on this grim, grim Saturday in March.

I'd like to think that I'm not a pretentious music snob, but considering I'm a twenty-something that was brought up on The Beatles, Stones, and Kinks- I'm bound to have a few snobbish views of organized sound. As soon as I heard (on the distorted reception spewing out from the speaker of my Sears alarm-clock/radio) that Goddammed, pile of crap reprise of Joni Mitchell's "Paved Paradise" I was ready to cut off my ears with a rusty pair of child-safety scissors. I loved that song once upon a time, you know, when Joni Mitchell birthed it. I don't know the name of the douche-bag that sings that song now and don't care to, but if I ever run into him in life.... I'm going to handcuff him, throw him in a closet, put a ball-gag in his mouth, headphones in his ears, a walk-man in his hands, and a cassette tape of his shitty song playing over and over again. I'll unlock my closet door when I hear the sound of his head exploding like that dude in the flick Scanners.

This was the first song I heard, mind you. I switched the station as quickly as the dial could move and nestled on a satisfactory oldies station. Music from the 70's, 80's, and 90's. The fact that those eras are considered "oldies" now makes my spleen shoot out of me with shock. Perhaps my definition of "oldies" is askew because I consider Frank Sinatra, Buddy Holly, Billie Holiday, Muddy Waters, The Beatles, The Velvet Underground, and anything in that vein all to be acceptable examples. The only reason I stayed tuned into the station was because they made a good first impression by playing David Bowie's, "Ziggy Stardust." Somewhat of an oldie, I suppose; but really, who cares? It's Bowie and he rules more than Rome back in the days of Gladiator fights.

The thing that disturbed me most about this whole sour audio experience is the undeniable and well-known truth that the music industry sucks the white off of a golf-ball these days. There is good music out there, however, it isn't being marketed to the masses and one has to dig around to find it like it's a lost sock on laundry day.

I could go on a long, trite, and verbose diatribe about how shows like "American Idol" and pop-whores like Brittany Spears and Justin Timberlake are a malignant tumor in the ear of the general public, but what's the use? I'm a big believer in the pendulum theory, and because of that believe that soon enough people will get sick of listening to horrid remakes of once-great songs playing every time they step into an elevator, are placed on hold while on the phone with their bank, go grocery shopping, or *gasp* turn on their radio because they can't listen to their ipod. There will be an overwhelming revolution, ooooooh yes indeedy! It'll involve rooftop performances with four British dudes, massive festivals with patchouli-doused hippies festering in the sun and groovin' in an amphitheater, and Guerilla jam sessions on every street corner in the world...

...In the meantime, I have to separate my brights from my whites. Peace out, y'all.