The whores have taken my music and I am filled with rage. But let me digress.
I was lying on my parent’s water bed. It was around three
o’clock. I was home from school. My parents weren’t home from work. And I was listening to the radio. The big, ugly chrome dual-tape, AM/FM set on the bookshelf above the bed. I was listening to the station I listened to when my parents weren’t home. The station that played alternative rock when there was still something for it to be an alternative to. I wasn’t supposed to listen to that kind of music, so I had to keep it low in case my parents pulled into the driveway. Couldn’t have them hearing it through the window.
I was listening to the radio. There was R.E.M. playing and then a disc jockey was saying that Kurt Cobain had eaten a shotgun. A friend of mine had just sold all of his Nirvana tapes, including a worn-down copy of _Bleach_, to me for five dollars. And the next week Cobain swallowed buckshot and capped off the Seattle revolution.
For the next decade, that station kept playing the same kind of music and they still called it alternative, even though every other station was playing the same, more and more frequently godawful shit.
Still, I loved [that station][dcrtv].
[It's gone now][post]. Because assholes in silk ties somewhere in another city decided rock-and-roll won’t buy them a second Mercedes, it’s gone. Now it’s [a Spanish language channel][zol]. The jockeys are gone. The programs are gone. The music — whether you call it pop or alternative or crap — is gone.
No warning. Just gone. It’s Kurt and a shotgun all over again.
And if anyone has the email address of the President/CEO of
[Infinity Broadcasting][infinity], drop me a line. I have many expletives that need to be released.