moar internetz

He has some funny lines, but this is fucking retarded:
“And by history, I mean: that chilling legacy, wherein totalitarian states silence and dictate the output of artists.”

These bands signed a contract to willingly to play an event (probably because they’re getting paid a shit ton of money) and they’re not allowed to bash the event they’re part of… which happens all the time when you get paid shit tons of money to play shitty rock shows (see: every beer sponsored event ever). There’s no parallel to a history of totalitarianism. In fact, saying that undermines the things going on for the Olympics that are legitimate abuses of power/authority. They had the choice to play (and play nice) or not. And if any of the artists really did get duped because they didn’t read the contract they signed, they’re fucking idiots.

If the Olympics started rounding up everyone playing any show, he’d have a point.

I hope he takes on my beef with the Vancouver Province for not paying me to print my article about how much their paper sucks next.

cameronr:

This is a fantastic Op-Ed. You should read it but here are a few lines that were either clever or very funny:

But this is a music blog, right? So why am I blathering on about bob-sledding and homeless dudes, and not telling you about Vampire Weekend’s apartment?

And…

Also: I like Feist. Every time I go to Zellers I hear her song. It reminds me of going to the store to buy batteries, but instead buying licorice.

And…

It’s kind of immaterial though: neither propaganda, nor deeply subversive art won’t stop us from, in the foreseeable future, cracking a can of cola/Pabst while loading up our cool, individualized playlists that reflect our life-style identification.

And…

They can respond to the mounting criticism of this clause by publicly removing this inane restriction, or they can remain mute, high up in their glass towers, silently and joylessly holding their contracts to their chests, secure in the knowledge that they suckered a few independent bands to sign a piece of paper that insures that these aforementioned bands cannot criticize their gala event — an event so imminently meaningful and central to our collective notion of “the world” that it contains, at its core, a ritual where grown men and women dressed in full-body spandex hurtle down an icy downhill track strapped to an ice-sled.