Why So Impatient? A love letter to Dickheads

Hello, my name is Jason. You might remember me from such classic moments as “when you foamed at the mouth and shit yourself because I gave your band my opinion,” or “when you watched me yell at people through a screen,” and “when you read about a fictional sexcapade that I described for the sake of making you giggle like a child discovering their genitalia for the first time (which even I can admit is a disgusting image).” There’s a whole lot of stuff you don’t know about me, but one thing you should have figured by now is that the art of music is entirely why I get out of bed in the morning. Sure, I like to imbibe, I’m a grumpy fuck, I have a god awful vernacular, but all of that is for naught without music. 

Music is so much my entirety that the wonderful land of Bucketlist Music Reviews isn’t even the only place I get to express this. I’ve lugged your favorite band’s gear to and from trailers and across stages here in my beloved Montreal, I’ve played in nothing bands to nothing crowds and pretended I could actually get somewhere with it one day, and most importantly, I’ve dwelled in more crowds with you than my wallet likes to admit, all with a big goofy smile on my face. 

Why am I giving you my life story right now? It’s definitely not to brag because lets be real, I’m essentially a fucking dumpster rat only less cute. No, it’s because some of you have successfully implemented your ignorant impatience to a such an extravagant degree that my love, the means with which I fill my belly, and my reason for existence (no, not booze or poutine) has been washed away in the global natural custerfuck that is the fucking plague. 

I’m not blaming anybody for the climate of today, but I am definitely going to shit on you, oh fictitious person that likely isn’t even reading this, for the length of time with which it might take to clean this mess. “I miss shows! I miss my friends! I miss my *insert useless socially constructed want here*.” Yes dear reader, I miss my way of life too, but impatience only makes the wait longer. We’ve all seen the horror movie where the first dickhead goes “Let’s make a run for it, they can’t get us all!” or “Lets split up and cover more ground,” or my personal favorite “Fuck you guys! I’m better off on my own!!!” And congratulations, every time you bitch about a safety restraint, or try to work your way into a loophole, or lazy out on basic fucking hygene and public decency, you’re that dude, coming around the corner and getting skull fucked with a *insert horror movie object here.* 

Let’s be clear with each other for a moment. We’re talking about an industry where too many of us pack into a room too small to justify paying an artist too little (subjective) for them to breathe on us and for us to breathe on eachother while having a jolly good time. . It’s insanely dirty and unhealthy by nature, but it’s expression and freedom. It’s a thing we can’t half-ass. It’s only truly authentic in its purest form. In the dirty room, with the dirty people, having the dirty fun, with the age old sound system shaving years off our hearing. Free of the fear of harming ourselves or our loved ones, at least more so than usual. I’ll jam your livestream concerts, I’ll buy the t-shirts and stream the new albums, hell, I’ll even throw a donation towards your local venue if my broke ass can make the numbers work. I’ll continue to do my part but I will not compromise the natural habitat of the live concert just so that you can jump the gun.  

I know where some of you will take this. I know I’m a sheeple conforming to the government’s master plan. I know I’m impeding the progress of the economy. Most of all, I know that it’s your right to do what you will with your mortal shell. What I also know is that throwing more bodies at the woodchipper won’t make it stop chipping wood. I know that my words will fall on deaf eyes and that the lines between need and want will continue to be frayed, and I know that when some sense of normalcy returns to the music world, it won’t be quite the same right away, and that it’ll likely be due to someone’s impatience. We’re each other’s kryptonite and for as long as we exist in this, I know the argument and divisiveness will persist. 

This horror movie will eventually come to an end. Big brother will not take over, evil corps won’t win, and with any luck we might even go back to the normal levels of not trusting each other, as opposed to this bath salts level dystopia. Life will return to normal, and we will have our live concerts and be able to chase music industry dreams again from the discomfort of our favorite venues (big or small) with our favorite acts (small or big). I know that I know nothing in all this mess, but do you know what kind of a dick you’re being? Oh and tip better if you’re going to insist on playing pretend you fucking cretins.

Written by Jason Greenberg
*Edited by Dominic Abate

About Jason Greenberg 166 Articles
On the first day, the Lord said "Let there be Bucketlist," and all of human kind then became aware of the incredulity or abysmally flaccid result on their attempt at Art. On the second day, the Lord said "Jason, go review that show you're going to on Friday," and begrudgingly, a review was made. What the world was for Jason Greenberg before that point is either completely unimportant or mildly pornographic, but the world of today after many years of serving his Queen has brought him opportunity, hardship, and a whole lot of Bucketlist patches on indiscriminate pieces of clothing. You may see him lugging your band's equipment and yelling at you aimlessly about the useless construct of time. You may see him expelling a noise not fully understood by humankind at the end of a microphone. You may even see him swimming in an ocean of poutine, but you will always see him as his true self, a sentient and obnoxious Bucketlist Music Reviews Billboard.

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