Philip Bram

Yesterday, I got called an "asshole", a "prick", a "dick", that I "have no soul", that I'm "insulting", that I'm a "fucking idiot", that if I don't "get Prince", then I "don't understand anything about music." Seriously? I have no soul because I don't find this self-righteous little weasel, this arrogant man-child who strutted around with an accessory cane, who, I'm sorry, simply had nothing interesting to say whatso-fucking-ever in his entire fucking life, not a single line of any song that tapped into anything that ever came close to even resembling the ethereal or could even reflect the mere pedestrian level of beauty this world has to offer, as inspiring and as fascinating as you do? A message-less messiah, sticking his tight little ass out like a cat in heat and then having the audacity to preach to others the platitudes of God. I mean, I really wouldn't give a shit, and the man certainly deserves some sort of place in music, but then the little lollipop sucking motherfucker accidentally kills himself and all I see are posts and rants by friends claiming him to be the most important, most creative ARTIST of our time, a visionary, a genius etc,...? Jesus Christ, it makes me fucking sick! How the hell am I supposed to refrain from responding? Once again, you people were bamboozled by a substance-less talent, drugged by a desperate, fame driven concoction of ingredients distilled from the lowest hanging fruit. Why not just go to Giggles and buy a big, fat, veiny dildo and marvel at that? Seriously, what the hell's the difference? His storytelling was some of the most juvenile I've ever heard in song. And if you don't believe me, go read the godawful fucking lyrics yourself. Yes, Colin Cheyne, lyrics aren't everything. The composition of the sound of the instruments is equally important (and I think you're a masterful, highly creative, musician). But if you put 'em in, then you've put 'em in, and you've now put your ass on the line. You're showing what you're made of, what you believe in, what consumes your rotten mind, and just what you've gathered up along this muddy, twisted, beaten up old road called "life". So go ahead, put a goddamn raspberry beret on your fucking head and hop in your little asshole red Corvette and drive that fucking thing like its 19fucking99 in the goddamn purple fucking rain while the doves cry and that psychopath, diseased ridden cunt, Nikki, who probably gave Prince AIDS, masturbates beside you to a goddamn magazine. I'll be listening to John Prine.