Aridi Writes

Dear X Factor,

Congratulations. I didn’t think anyone could actually do it, but you’ve achieved what the entire current music industry could not. You’ve crushed my faith that the industry could produce something good by itself.

Oh sure; there’s some quality acts around the periphery. There’s some bands that become big even lacking – or perhaps despite of – your relentless marketing and the incredible ignorance of the general music-buying populace. But if we’re honest, they aren’t the moneymakers, are they? They’re not the people that churn out the classic cash cows, like:

- Horrible, oversampled, uninspiring hip-hop with all the originality of a photocopier and no message AT ALL.
- Pop-trash songs put through a barrage of filters and machinery written by middle-aged men in offices for singers without any talent AT ALL.
- Dance music that I could make in five minutes with my laptop and a complete lack of any creativity AT ALL.

Yes. These are the things that make money. And honestly? That’s fine. That’s why there’s an Alternative music scene. That’s why the quality music will always be considered Alternative – the music that is written by the people that perform it, the music with craft and effort put into its creation, the music that is made with blood, sweat and tears. The music the artist wants to make, regardless of if it will sell.

But when the main stream decides to dip into a song that is for all purposes an Alternative song (in that it is beautiful, well-crafted and not made for a cynical marketing scheme – at odds with the main stream ENTIRELY), then a line has been crossed; Leona Lewis covering Run? That’s not so offensive, despite her version being frankly rubbish, but at least she didn’t butcher say Chasing Cars or The Planets Bend Between Us.

It’s Hallelujah that gets to me.

Hallelujah. If you listen to that song, every time it’s performed, it is a different song – I’ve heard countless versions, all of them performed by talented artists, all of them unique, all of them personal to that artist. The most beautiful version I’ve heard is performed solo by Myles Kennedy of Alter Bridge and the Mayfield Four, but I also have a lot of love for the Rufus Wainright version, and of course, Jeff Buckley.

The song could never be called a hopeful song. If you listen to it…if you listen to it AT ALL then you know it isn’t a hopeful song, or a terribly happy one, or anything else. Trying to make it happy and up-beat would be a little like trying to remove the anger from Jeremy, or the cynicism from Welcome To The Machine – or trying to turn Learn To Fly into a funeral dirge. In short, it fucks up the song.

In short, YOU fucked up the song. I won’t blame the woman that sung it (whoever she is). I blame YOU, X Factor. I blame the gears behind the scenes that have galvanised the industry into force-feeding us dog shit again. I blame YOU for turning a beautiful, touching song into something horrifyingly banal and “family-friendly” and all in the name of sales and the Christmas number one slot. Because in five years, when you talk to young people about Hallelujah, they will remember this over-produced pile of monkey droppings, and not a REAL version of the song.

That’s okay, though. You line your pockets. You sign the record deals and the marketing agreements and make sure you can afford that brand new Lamborghini. Because we fans of music? You know, MUSIC? That stuff that you can believe in? We work behind the scenes. When someone talks about the Christmas number one, we’ll introduce them to a real version of the song, and that will move them to tears – and they will regret you people ever acquiring the rights for Hallelujah.

Enjoy your money. It may not be all yours for long. Change is coming, and the industry is opening up. The dinosaurs in charge that sic the lawyers on everyone that deviates from their current listening plan can’t possibly keep up with the changes in listening habits and the delivery of media. Revolution will come, regardless of how hard you’ll fight.

I’ll delight in watching your house of cards collapse around you.

Signed,

A Music Fan

Overall, I could convince myself that this year wasn’t a total failure – and in truth it wasn’t. I wrote almost 50,000 words this month – unfortunately in something like six different stories, ten to fifteen thousand in three, far less in the other three. I came up with an excellent sci fi setting idea, but couldn’t execute anything with it. I could use that sometime soon…

Why did I fail? Lack of attention. A new relationship that is…frankly, wonderful, but distracting due to it’s newness and unusual agreeable nature. Work and all its little nuances. Gigs, parties, a social life…all things that I should, really, have seen would messed up my word count.

The real crippler was being unable to settle on a story. I had ideas, lots of them; but I didn’t particularly feel like writing any of them. Not like I want to write Minute Silence; a contigious setting that I already know very well, with an overarching plot that I can still tweak and develop. Let’s face it, I also love the characters. Anyone that’s listened to me prattle about Cal, Black Swan or Mark can testify to that.

So the lesson? Make sure I know what I want to write. And if I don’t want to write it…change it. We all have to write things we don’t particularly want to but we can always make it more bearable.

It’s like a good book and a glass of water on a long-haul flight. You’re still in an uncomfortable situation – but it could be worse.