That’s the title of a film I saw yesterday. Monsters rush to eat anyone who is making a sound. Perhaps it is not so bad an idea after all.
I used to listen to my songs in random order, but now I go through them alphabetically by name. That has made me notice something remarkable —out of 38 songs in my collection whose name begins with ‘I’, 14 are from The Beatles.
You know them —male, white, middle class, unapologetically heteropatriarchs, and as I can see now, a bunch of egocentric bastards.
As if the world revolted around them, or as if we gave a damn about the pettiness and hollowness of their pathetic partying around for a girl’s kiss in caverns in Liverpool.
The world would be a better place if they had checked back their privileges, assumed their guilt, apologized to the oppressed, pledged them for acceptance and forgiveness, and redeemed themselves by assuming the role of the meek and humble, low-key unconditional background supporter of those whose moment in history has arrived.
And what did they do instead? A batch of silly songs no one wants to hear which should be given absolutely no platform in any college radio station.
Ban’em, here, there, and everywhere.