A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. — 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.' — Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
I played open mic night at Eddie's Attic here in town.
To wit, I didn't win. This pisses me off in all sorts of ways. Mostly because everyone who made the top three sounded just like the next _________________.
In Birmingham, one sees amateurish mediocrity. These people looked like a patische of whatever's popular right now. For comparison, Birmingham is like receiving a really poor quality fruitcake for Christmas. Atlanta is like receiving a gourmet fruitcake for Christmas.
Both of them are hideous, but one is more asthetically hideous.
The night started out slowly. I thought I'd be a shoo-in, based on the first few acts. The first was a very nineteen-year-old faux country singer who used every cliche of inexperience known to man and plugged his own private myspace music page in between songs. *slaps forehead*
The winner, a nice young lady from Memphis, sounds like the latest popular thing.
I guess that's what gets me. Everyone was looking for the latest popular thing and not something particularly new or different. Compared to everyone else who played these extended, ornate, and utterly pedestrian songs.
The image I got was of shit in a silk stocking. Looks good on the outside, but it's still shit, no matter how clever the packaging.