It's a Matter of Making Music

Usually my work is somewhat cynical in nature and indeed I've been described as a "Grumpy young man".  However, this is a positive post.  Sort of.  In one of my recent articles -  Making Noise about Social Media - I discussed the world of P2P file sharing with regards to the music industry, I interviewed musical performer and all round good bloke, Akira The Don as well as a representative of a leading record label.  I like to think of that article as a debate, a discussion if you will.  However, this article is full of something very different.  Praise.

But before you think a leopard has changed its spots and because more than anything I like doing it, i'll start with a little moan.  Why is it that people who describe themselves as "massive music fans", never pay for it?  Has anyone else noticed this, or is it just me?  The dubstep heads, the D&B listeners, the electro kids, all of them, serial Limewire users.  I'm not going to lie, I used to download music, before I really thought about music as an industry, rather than just a song.  So I was delighted to learn about a new venture called Why Music Matters.

This 'movement' has been created by artists, retailers, songwriters, labels and managers and has the purpose of "reminding consumers of the significance and value of music".  Ironically, the medium in which they are raising awareness of this value is through the use of short films.  They concentrate on artists throughout history who have changed cultures or had particular impact through their music.  Including artists ranging from The Fron Choir to The Jam to Kate Bush, they overtly want to raise awareness of legitimate music services, how beautiful music is as art and in the end and stamp out the ever increasing illegal downloads.

For me, a particular pleasure of the campaign, is their direction.  They propel a knowledge of the industry, a deep rooted understanding of music and music production and are targeting the attitude rather than the action.  There have been various other movements against illegal downloads, but took the direction of criticism and anger towards the 'downloader'.  Why Music Matters seem to have understood that this is not the correct path.  They are merely trying to shed light on well, why music matters.  By reminding people of that, they hope the potential file sharers will become real music fans.  Their passion is infectious.  

They are raising awareness about their venture via the medium of social media.  It is clear that more than anything, they do not resent 'downloading' and are aware of the shift in the industries core marketplace, as long as it isn't illegal.  It is this peaceful not preachful attitude that I respect more than anything.  Their means of action is merely a trademark.  "The trust mark is a widespread certification scheme which identifies legitimate music services."

We live in an increasingly digital world.  19 out of every 20 tracks downloaded are done so illegally.  Why Music Matters work on the attitude that they, music fans, are legitimately supporting the artists, musicians, songwriters and everyone involved in creating the music when it is downloaded.

I am happy to announce this is my first excitable, positive (sort of) article about something I hope will truly take off.  As a music fan myself, not a pop-puppet, but a music fan, I live in hope.

Recession Depression

The following article is my first attempt at travel writing and I like to feel it is a fairly original and different “Clutterance” on journey writing than you may have read before. Ultimately, I have discovered the most conclusive, eye opening and brutal truth on the reason for travelling in the first place. This reason is as follows; England is shit. Oh how the nationalists would beat me down for that statement, but I don’t care, not in the slightest. I’m not even talking about scenery, or food, or wine, or coffee, or technology, or events, or even the weather. I am talking about the people. What an even more powerful eye opener it was for me to be surrounded by people with at least a basic understanding of the importance of being polite. I bloody loved Canada.

As my brother and I left for the airport early doors I realised two things. One - I hadn’t charged my iPod, and two - I didn’t have any headphones. Alarm bells were ringing that I couldn’t listen to my music or my podcasts for a 10ish hour flight, so I decided to pass the time by looking at the people around me. Much like an inquisitive child I looked around wide-eyed and tried to learn from, and about my surroundings. “People, people everywhere and not a smile to see.”

Astonishing really, that I was in a place that was about to launch the majority of people on holiday and everyone seemed so disappointed and almost angry to be there. I was painfully aware that everyone was walking around, worried. “Have I got my passport?” – it’s in a plastic wallet, in a rucksack, with a lock on it. The most over secured, most pre-packed and most likely to be unforgotten document in the world! Relax people, you know where it is. I noticed people lumbering massive bags around the terminal moaning about the weight of them and how they don't want to pay a pound for the trolley. Again, two things; firstly its ONE POUND! Secondly, YOU GET IT BACK!

Moaning, complaining, sighing, sour-faced, miserable British people. Even the children seemed like a dose of sugar and stealing their nose wouldn't cheer them up - it always worked for me. Furthermore I could tell that people around me were looking at me and thinking; "he's wearing a hat? A beanie hat? Indoors? He must be trouble! Alert, alert, avoid, AVOID!". As though my hat was some sort of universal symbol for CRIMINAL! It was a bloody nice hat too.

Anyway, as my brother and I waded through the people, carefully avoiding any light brushing of someone's bags for fear of being hit or arrested, we began our queue to check-in. What a joyous occasion. Greeted by a face like a slapped arse, the woman behind the desk obviously hadn't heard about service with a smile. As my brother handed over our little print out ticket - in immaculate condition I might add - having removed it from the little plastic hiding place that it found itself in, it was though he handed over an image of some sort of interracial, midget orgie. She honestly looked like someone had punched her in the ovary, hurt she was, upset, seemingly angry that she was about to have to do what is expected of her at work! Shock!

"Do you have any weapons, chemicals or sharp objects in your bag sir?" - What, other than my semi-automatic rifle, pipette of the SARS virus and some nail scissors? What a ridiculous question. NO i don't, and if I did, and I was a terrorist, i'm hardly going to admit it am I? Still, despite my incredulity at some of the stupidest questions I have ever been asked - "Have you packed the bag yourself sir?" - Nothing could waver my enthusiasm for the trip ahead. Eventually, bags weighed and excess baggage dropped off, we went through to the shopping bit. Still chirpy, full of excitement about the skiing and snowboarding ahead we went through to the room of bright lights and no clocks.

Much like a casino, an airport departures area basically never seems to sleep. Unlike a casino, it is full of people who don't want to be there. I walked into a few shops and got the impression that actually, contrary to popular belief, browsing the goods on show is frowned upon. Maybe it was my hat? Who knows. Disillusioned, we went for a coffee. I sat down with a proper coffee and my brother had a bit of coffee with a lot of gay - a vanilla latte. Anyway, in the queue I asked my him if he wanted a muffin, which incidentally he didn't, but everyone around me looked appalled. Talking, in a queue, is HATED! It was as though I had in fact stood there, dropped my pants and defecated on the floor. People literally turned their noses up at me that I had the audacity to speak in public. As it was my turn to order I somehow made the woman laugh! LAUGHTER! Like a blooming flower in a desert of grey misery, it was a small Costa Coffee miracle. I've no idea why she laughed, I think it was my facial expression as I ordered the vanilla latte, or it might have been my hat, but my god I was so happy she did. But then she spoke. Foreign. Before you seem shocked that i'm disappointed that a foreigner spoke, it is not for any BNP associated reasons, it's because the only happy person (other than my brother and I) that I had so far encountered on this day, in Britain, wasn't even British. This somewhat set the tone.

After we obtained our caffeine fix, we headed to our gate. Pretty long walk to be fair, but as we would be sat in a tin can for the next 10ish hours, I was savouring every step. Reaching the gate, I decided to look for a plug to charge my iPod as my ever so kind brother happened to have brought two pairs of headphones. Being unable to see a plug by my self, I decided to ask a lady behind the boarding desk. Another mistake. Absolute horror of horrors, I interrupted her conversation about handbags with her over moisteurised, shiny male cabin crew friend. God forbid that they were there to do anything other than mingle and talk to each other! I approached her cautiously, much like a wildlife explorer would do a rabid hyena (which incidentally is a pretty good likeness) and said; "hi, I was wondering if there was anywhere that I could possibly charge my iPod?" She then proceeded to look at me as though i'd actually walked up to her and said: "hi, I was wondering if I could put my iPod down your throat and pull it out your arse and dangle you around this room by the wire as some sort of human decoration?" - which in hindsight, I should have done. Anyway, her response was this; "Dunno, one of the post things near the shops might 'ave a plug". Thaaaaaaaaaanks! Granted at least she gave some sort of information, but it was like the words physically hurt her as they came out. In short, she was a miserable little bitch.

We eventually found a plug, but it didn't work so alas I had to read - The Biography of Bill Hicks if you're asking. Eventually, we began boarding our plane, "our big ticket was turned into a little ticket" and we were then given the ever so pointless instructions of how to find a seat on a plane. "Oh thank you, I would have been stuck in the bathroom otherwise". As the stewardesses shepherd us onto the plane with a combination of regretful glances and halitosis we took our seats. I was actually pleasantly surprised with my seat on Monarch. Enough legroom and an empty seat next to me regenerated my enthusiasm back to a top, top level. A few games of poker (without chips, so basically all-in and see what happens) a couple of films, a bit of reading and 10ish hours of people watching. There was a distinct lack of friendliness from staff to passenger throughout the journey, with our plane food (the worst kind of food) slapped on our tray tables like a convict on Green Row being thrown their last meal. "Tea or coffee sir?" She says, and looks at me like a detective would interrogate a suspect... "Ooh, coffee please, thanks very much" I say, offering my little plastic cup with a smile....."This is tea, coffee will be down later" she says, swatting my cup away from her like some sort of fly in the air. I wasn't even wearing my hat at this point.

When we landed, we left the plane in somewhat of a hurry. Although the plane itself wasn't too bad, I almost felt like one of the policemen on "Con Air", after the plane had been hijacked. Alas, we were in Canada, I could see the mountains in the distance and my god was I excited. Shattered, but excited. Welcome to Canada it read overhead as we walked through the terminal, that is one thing we certainly were, welcome.

In the UK at passport control, it feels as though you have done something wrong when they read the passport, in Canada they ask the security questions with a smile and tell you to have fun. Nobody posed any threatening glances or unwelcome questions but merely tried to speed up the process as much as possible and wish us a good trip. In fact, the only negative about queuing for passport control was some idiot pushing past everyone! And guess what, he was British.

For the duration of the week on the mountains every time we held open the door for a Canadian, we received thanks, when we said thank you ourselves, we received a "your welcome". It was incredible. The difference in how to treat people was truly astonishing. Bus drivers were friendly, bar staff didn't resent us, the guy in the rental shop didn't actually try and force a sale, he just gave advice! It was amazing. Granted we were surrounded by views that included the following:

And;

And finally:

So yes, where we were had sights beautiful enough to cheer up even the grumpiest of individuals, but the whole trip certainly put into perspective how miserable most of the UK seems in my eyes.  Some of you may not agree, you may surround yourselves with beautifully positive people, and if you do, I envy you.  I appreciate the irony that my entire blog is a moan about moaning, but seriously, why are people in Britain so rude?  People in clubs who walk around looking for fights, bar staff who actually dislike you for ordering a drink, and don't get me started on the police!

We seem to live in an antisocial society.  We live in a judgmental, unfriendly and guilty until proven innocent culture.  I just want to know why.  Could it be the recession has actually left a depression?