" After that, it's simply a matter of taste for the listener." mr anonymous on the Slim Whitman post.
The fact that Never Have We Been So Sung-At By So Many is a perpetual irritation to me, mr anonymous. I know that when I re-enter The Great Unconsciousness, the distant music of the spheres, the Universal Heartbeat will be counterpointed arythmically by the discord of Earthly popular song, it spreads out from the planet to Infinity, discrediting us.
I guess it was the creation of the economic entity of teenage that engaged the drive on this unstoppable production line of ditty and complaint, rockabilly's early charm long since forcibly metamorphised into marketable drivel - I will, before I die, write my poste de resistance, How the Beatles destroyed Rock'n'Roll, I have promised it to Mr dtp - into an overblown prolongation of adolescent angst, from Nick Drake to that whining git from Coldplay, and layered it with a faux nobility, the wretched Ray Davies, for instance, hailed as a Betjamin of our times, grunting his teen anthems, flailing rudimentarily at his guitar, surrounded, these days by a choir, more a Max Bygraves of our time than a Betjamin, SingalongaRay, lissen, I wannatellyouyastory. The teenager-as-shopper phenomenon extends, now, to the grave, and bald and bearded loons bless themselves that in their sixties the Kink or the Manfred or the Fab Mopster or most of the undead Stones have come, croaking and wheezing, riffing and jigging, honky-tonk bluesing amongst them. And as though that was not infamy enough, weekly, new pouting, posturing, talentless egomaniacs are manufactured, their bleatings and warblings expressed through who-knows-what Devil-media. Each rapid generation of consumer-idiots laying claim to a music of its own. Shite, most of it.
So I am not entirely at one with you, mr anonymous, in that all forms of music are equally meritorious. I know that is not entirely what you are saying but it is contained within your observations - and it is implicit in mr mongoose's rejection of studied formality, elsewhere.
I am as moved, I hasten to say, by the unschooled artistry of Blind Willie McTell or Big Joe Williams as I am by the impossibly chilly precision of Johannes Sebastian Bach or the insane lyricism of poor, mad, deaf and angry Ludwig van Beethoven. It is just that there is an increasing amount of stuff in-between which adds nothing to either canon and which only sees the light of day as a result of market forces - it is not the song of the street, the prairie, the plantation; the lament of the battlefield, the moor, the glen or the broken heart; it is not the clever diversion of the salon nor the expression of glorious obedience to God; it is neither shanty nor march, neither history nor satire; it is just product, its beneficiaries not its performers or its dragooned audience-purchasers but instead the likes of the Godless heathen bastard fuckpig, Simon Cowell, Cruelty TeeVee's smirking impresario of shite.
I think, in short - and it is a truncation - that we need to be more and not less elitist about these things, that Whatever Turns You On is not necessarily a constructive approbation, Teach Your Children Well, teach them Moneteverdi, before Crosby Stills and Nash. If we laud the confectionery as being equal to the meat, as we do, fewer and fewer will migrate themselves, eventually, to the simple musical truths of, just for instance, Slim Whitman or, in this case, the Copper Family. All, then, will be lost in discord.