Memorabilia Music

I have been reflecting a lot recently on my failed clubbing extravaganzas that were intended to be a great night out with the crew listening to some good party music in the club and dancing the night away… yet, I find myself dwelling on how unfulfilling the experience was because I was bombarded with a barrage of Jamaican dancing instructions telling me to tek way mehself and to lift the weights over meh head and was left utterly confused as to the lyrical content of the song once the chorus was complete and the verses began.

It’s fun…for a time. Then it crosses the line from being a nice break away from slow conscious or soca to making me feel like I’ve entered some teleporting device (like back in the days of Star Trek, when it used to look TOTALLY lame and would be WAY more technologically advanced now) where I am suddenly in the streets of Kingston or Spanish Town in Jamaica. If I wanted to feel Jamaican, I would migrate. It was intriguing in the beginning to get a taste of the culture, but now I just tek weh mehself and wacky dip into the nearest damn seat waiting for the music to blow over and wishing I at least had a Vogue or Seventeen magazine to flip through in the meantime. I won‘t apologise to the fans of the genre, I’m just not big on the whole “passa passa” epidemic. I feel like I’ve already suffered an overdose.

I’m getting a little tired of taking orders, I already have a problem with authority in the real world, I don’t need Busy Signal or whoever the hell else to be dishing out instructions and orders as well. Granted, instructional music had been around for countless decades, back in the days of the humpty hump (rap fans will know), ‘Do the hustle’ and ‘Macarena’ (one of the most hilarious songs of all time) and people were like robots on the dance floor all doing the same dance at the same time…“Hey Macarena! Aye!”

But then again, what ever happened to just going to a party and just partying? No instructions necessary because partying requires none; just enter the club and dance your ass off and have a grand old time with your friends. Alcohol consumption isn’t even necessary to do that, music generates a natural high… well USED to generate a natural high, these days I find myself trying to generate my high before I even hit the club just in case they decide to play the shit that is currently carrying the label ‘Music.’

A lot of the time when I’m on the way to the party with my friends we would surf stations and see what’s playing on the radio to help us get hyped and would end up having to change stations so often that eventually I just zone out (I’m not sure if it’s ADHD or musical fatigue…my mind can‘t absorb ANY MORE!). I’m always the one who’s secretly most thrilled with the idea of partying the night away because I’ve been a stay at home kind of girl for the last few years and I’m now in social mode and I will most certainly fight for my right to party.

Fast forward to the actual party experience. First of all, DJs talk too much. I think that a lot of them are now confused with their job description, which is to play good music and keep the people dancing and happy. They’re now “larging up” this and that crew and talking shit over the music and I feel like I’m listening to a damn call in session on a radio station and I‘m kind of expecting people to walk to the DJ booth and take turns with the mic saying ludicrous stupid things like, “big up man like screw face! Ploi ploi!!!” And what’s worse is that I can’t even look forward to when they stop talking and actually fulfil their occupational duty and play some music because then the music is even MORE Jamaican dance instructions or worse yet some other absolute garbage telling girls to “fuck him in a crowd ‘cause your punanny proud.”

I think I’m going to open my own club, play some good music for a change and let people just come and have a good time and not feel like blowing their brains out when they hear another one of Movado’s digitally enhanced “gangsta for life” introductions or Machel Montano’s overdone “hee huhhh!!!” I can’t even satiate myself with the idea of them changing the tune of the music, because when they actually do change the genre it then advances from Jamaican dancing instructions to what I have so fondly labelled ‘bullshit mother effin rap.’ This consists of the most filth that I have ever heard like this song (that within the first 5 seconds of hearing I was immediately offended that they were even calling it hip hop); VIC featuring Soulja Boy’s new “hit song” ‘Get Silly.’*SIGH* Fuck! Excuse the French, but I have gotten to the end of my rope with the ‘bullshit mother effin rap.’ For those of you who’ve heard it, I’m guessing you can empathise (particularly if you remember the days of hip hop being something that was more of a daily dose of knowledge and reality than just a pack of ASSNESS with people talking about grills and rims and bitches and hoes and cars and houses…MO MONEY! MO MONEY! MO MONEY!)

I have been holding on to my memorabilia music for quite some time now, preferring to download than to listen to the radio in hopes of eventually hearing something worthwhile. I hold on to an mp3 player like it stores my memoirs because … well… it kind of does. Most of my life stories are wrapped up in music. There’s a genre for every phase, a song for every break up and make up, a tune for every significant person in my life and an artiste to represent every possible frame of mind that I can encompass. Music is like a series of digital recordings that I carry with me as souvenirs of my life experiences; the good, bad and the ugly.

If only I could get into the club with an mp3 player as a back up plan to leave with my earphones on and go sit in the car waiting on my friends and really have the time of my life totally destroying my eardrums… with GREAT music instead of polluting it with nonsensical lyrics over wicked beats. You ever asked yourself why a shit song almost ALWAYS has the best beat ever? It’s like a brainwashing…they give it a “bess” beat so that your excuse for listening to the song can be “this beat soooo sweet!” and then before you know it you’re singing right along and then calling it “catchy.” The way of the world, brainwashing takes place everyday and in any and every which way you can imagine.

I don’t want to have to look back on my life experiences and hear “I’m so crispy, I’m so crispy” playing as background music. According to the crack diva Whitney Houston, “hell to the no!” So in the meanwhile, as I’m waiting on the music industry to collapse and for the underground to rise to the surface, I’ll have my memorabilia music to keep me insane in a sane way and prevent me from randomly bombing the record labels responsible for the rubbish recycling. To the rest of my memorabilia music carriers…may the force be with us!

Your garbage rejecting underground music mole,


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