Every day we march inevitably toward our own individual destruction while our species stands poised at the verge of mass evolution. Old models must be raized and the crumbling facades of the old ways must be torn stone from stone before they collapse on top of us like an Haitian city.

You can either fear this next phase of human evolution and cower in hallucinogenic doomsday prophecies like John of Patmos or another 2012 fanatic, embrace the “dawn of a New Age” and prance around like a flower child, blissful in your ignorance, or join with us and prepare to ride the wave.

A quick review of the site has revealed a deficit of simple-minded and morose brooding as of late. So, before we alienate our core audience (you know who you are), we submit the following:

Lightning strikes to reveal the masses marching in time to the ceaseless war drums.
Wave upon wave
Relentless.
Grim determination as the flag unfurls
A crimson scar
A blood soaked star.
Banner of the dispossessed,
United in our march to the gallows.
An octopus
A hydra.
Faceless, formless and unrelentless.
The cancer is growing.
Its too late to operate.
Feel the tendrils wrap ’round your throat.
Kill one and a thousand take his place.
The future is ours and you are not going to like it.

Ok, so this came to my attention:

http://gremlin.net/main/2010/07/05/stealing/

Read it and come back. I’d strongly recommend hitting the original link too (http://www.jasonrobertbrown.com/weblog/2010/06/fighting_with_teenagers_a_copy.php) though reading all the subsequent banter is unnecessary.

Up to speed? Ok. Let’s rock.

So, as I mentioned the other day, I’m definitely a capitalist: Money is good. I’d rather not need it, but greenbacks are still superior to beads and shells and “free” just doesn’t work. Not in theory and not in practice.

And as a musician, I want to make money off the shit I make. This isn’t a charity: I’m more than happy to take any money that happens to be currently weighing down your wallet and/or conscience.

That being said, art is theft. The only difference between good art and bad art, is the artist’s personal ability to camouflage his sources. We rip off what we see and hear and remix it. Artists have been doing it since the earliest days of stick painting. And even the most morally superior person finds practical limits on compensating the sources, not to mention a couple of equally severe philosophic ones.

Let’s start with the practical.

First, you have chronological limits. Let me be clear here that “estates” are leeches. A group of people, under the guise of protecting some other person’s “artistic integrity” post-mortem are capitalizing off of a body of work in which they made no significant contribution. Elvis deserved to get paid for the music he made (assuming you like Elvis). His kids don’t. They can go out and get actual jobs. The fact that these groups are able to renew copyright at all is total shit. So, while I’m alive, you owe me money. Once I’m dead, fuck it. Same goes for you and every other person on this pathetic rock.

And I think even the life of the artist may be pushing it. If your sole claim to fame and fortune is a song you wrote 20 years ago and so you still have to milk it for every cent you can, that’s your problem. Get a job. Write another song. Something. Considering most people barely have the attention span to even sit through a song all the way, trying to collect decades after the fact is stupid.

Logic problem number 2, the question of origin: We rip off everything. But can we be held responsible for ripping off someone by proxy? If I play a guitar lick I stole from Zach Wylde who actually stole it from Muddy Waters, who do I pay? Why should Waters get to benefit from Wylde’s notoriety? Why should Wylde get paid for something he didn’t write?

Now the more philosophic problems:

Lets assume that in a moment of benighted ignorance, I believe that something I wrote (musically or otherwise) was entirely 100% unique, only to find that what I wrote was actually the hook for the Beatles’ “Day Tripper”? (Its a hypothetical. Just run with it). Is there any justification for me being charged for using someone else’s work if it happens by pure coincidence? Sure, one could argue that I might have to prove I had never heard “Day Tripper”, but then prove to me you’ve never thought about a bi-curious fuchsia rabbit. Unless I am able to account for every minute I have been alive (approximately 13,665,600 thus far) and what sounds were occurring at each moment, it can’t be done. Ever. Period. So I’m screwed. Fair, huh?

Philosophical issue 2: Unintended consequences.

Let’s say for argument’s sake, that we agree that every artist (or their estate) is entitled to compensation every time for the use of their material, even if it was purely by accident. So, who’s out collecting money at the party on behalf of Metallica when one kid decides to put on his copy of Ride the Lightning?

Fair use only covers duplication of material that one already owns, and only as back up to their current copy for private use. No letting friends look at/hear it, and no loaning it out, since these all qualify as public performance. No singing along and definitely no trying to pick out on the guitar at home, since these all constitute “unauthorized reproduction”.

You MIGHT be allowed to discuss its existence with people you know, but to be safe, “the first rule of Metallica is: You don’t talk about Metallica” (which, incidentally, I’m quite cool with). And this then extends to anything which has ever influenced a Metallica song in any way.

Seems a bit draconian, but the letter of the law is all that matters here and there are no exceptions (unless given previous written authorization from the creator, manufacturer, distributor, retailer, and any other party which can demonstrate sufficient interest in the transaction).

Now, lets deal with the specific issue presented here: a kid “trades” sheet music online, asking price $3.99, unable to find it in a medium accessible to her. While I’m disappointed by the lack of ingenuity, we’ll let that slide. Of that $3.99, let’s assume it really is a cold day in Hell and 100% of it finds its way into the author’s pocket (in reality, I’d be surprised if the author got 5%). If we’re only worried about the renumeration of the author, we can set up a Pay-Pal account and everyone can contribute to the “poor kids who can’t afford sheet music” fund and be done with it. Of course, then you have the unpaid for performance of the piece and the cycle continues…

But look at the big picture: this unpaid for copy of sheet music is serving double-duty as free advertising and creating new fans who are likely to go out and buy schwag. At the very least, if this girl is half the fan she claims to be, she’s probably in possession of ridiculously marked up paraphernalia and probably attended a show or two, which is where we artists really make most of our money anyway.

There’s a reason why bands and other artists give out shit at concerts. We can either pay thousands of dollars for a guy in a cheap suit to hock our wares, or we throw a kid a t-shirt and he proudly wears it, impressing his friends and luring more of you to spend your cash on our next self-absorbed endeavor.

So here’s the bottom line: if you like what we, or any other artist/musician/writer does, show support: Buy an album or a sticker or t-shirt or drawing or whatever. This is how we pay the bills and it encourages us to make more of the shit you like. But if the best you can do is help spread our work around, we’ll take that too.

As we in the US get ready to celebrate Independence Day, another commercial distortion of much older ideas, my mind finds itself wandering toward politics.

People have asked me a few times just where my allegiances lay in this arena, and they are generally shocked and appalled to learn that their preconceptions are generally wrong.

After all, I will gladly kick your ass, so I must be one of those psychotic pro-war Repugnantcans. Of course, on the other hand I’m about as untraditional as you can get without gill implantation surgery (soon… soon) so I must be one of those hippy, liberal Demoncrats.

But dig this:

I’m pro-guns AND pro-drugs (seems a handy population control mechanism in the making)

I’m pro-environment (generally liking air) AND anti-environmentalism (recycling is a scam).

I’m pro-life AND pro-death (seeing as how they’re inevitable anyway, what do I care if its in utero?)

Hell, I’m even pro-religion and pro-government, both generally being archaic, though frequently psychologically necessary and occasionally useful constructs for most people most of the time. And I have been known to run the gamut from tyrannical fascist to left-wing anarchist depending on how many idiots I’ve dealt with today.

The label-slappers out there generally sit back smugly with the word “Libertarian” (sometimes centrist) at the front of their purile little minds, but put simply, my beliefs won’t fit on a bumper sticker, let alone a single word.

In a perfect world, I suppose you could call me a laissez-faire-anarcho-capitalist-libertarian… but even that requires a good handful of qualifiers.

What I’m against is tyranny of thought, dogmatism, and hyper-emotionalism. I’m against manufactured conformity, political correctness and intellectual laziness.

I’m also against the idea that we’re all equal and yet, all unique. It has to be one or the other. I’m against the overwhelming sense of entitlement you monkeys exhibit and the idea that somehow your race, gender, or other involuntary trait renders you superior to anyone.

Elitism isn’t wrong in and of itself, but I’m better because I CHOOSE to be, not because of the random assembly of genetic information, divine providence or sheer fucking luck.

There is no conclusion. I am what I am and its likely to change… evolution is a wonderful thing. Get over it. Get past the labels, past the petty shit stirring and wake up. I may not agree with you, but it might at least give me reason to respect you.

You fear the government. You fear your gods. You fear each other. You fear yourselves.

You set yourselves at the mercy of anyone and anything that keeps you from having to take responsibility for your life.

Its the president’s fault, its Satan’s fault. Its your coworker’s fault. The unions, the conspirators, the Illuminati…

But its never your fault.

You’re just a victim. You didn’t have the luck, the genes, the connections. Your not worthless, you’re just oppressed.

‘They’ did this to you. Those bastards. If you had the chance, you’d make them pay. You’d… you’d… you’d… what?

Beat them to a bloody pulp like you do your worthless kids and wife? Scream obscenities at them like you do that fool at the nail salon? Or just cower, wimpering, and continue to accept whatever ‘they’ think is good for you?

You’re an idiot.

Keep devouring the bullshit. Smile. Swallow. Good.

Welcome to the rest of your life. You don’t deserve anything else.

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Every day we die, waking only to find that the stories we were told as children are at best fabrication, and at worst, deliberate lies designed to soften our minds. We sleep to escape the oppression of mass-mindedness only to find the safest of all sanctums has been corrupted beyond all recognition. No longer the land of harmless fantasy, super powers, and vital imagery which once shook us to our very core, we find that they have become little more than extensions of consumption, the mill we are ground through every day.

There is no end in sight.

We consume, we are consumed and we consume more to compensate: Little more than Id’s and libidos, mindless, propelled from one compulsion to the next. This is the age of the impulse buy.

If its not for sale we don’t want it, but if its easily marketable, if there are focus groups and audience polls, if we can feel that somehow we have control over the megolithic manufacturers, we take it as a victory when really we are picking our coffins. We desperately cling to the symbols, catch phrases and slogans of everything around us. It must be distilled for us to find it palatable; it must be catchy, artificially sweetened and totally devoid of meaning. We refuse to acknowledge the gaping maw of the abyss waiting just around the corner, refuse to learn out of fear that we may realize just how little we know.

The muck grows to cover our minds like a second skin as we lay unused, unstimulated, having forsaken our own evolution. We assume that we are the highest species, that any further growth is unnecessary, we believe that this truly is the ‘best of all possible worlds’ and rush out to get there before the doors open to buy as much as we can. And even those cognizant of the ever-downward spiral are no better off. They cannot functionally remove themselves from the cycle. And so, whether they will it or not, they too are consumed.

Flesh rent from bone, marrow slurped out, until there is well and truly nothing left.

A man once said that “all that glitters is not gold” and he was considered wise beyond his years. Great statues were erected in his honor for the people believed that he had revealed a deep universal truth about the nature of the world. Appearances can be, and often are, deceiving. For many years the people were content with this small nugget of truth, it became the staple for most and at least a comfortable and well worn cliche for everyone else.

Then, one day, in the midst of the daily regurgitation of this truth a man spoke up from the crowd “Doesn’t mean people won’t buy it anyway”. And verily, the people saw that it was true, that they would rather be deceived by appearances than worry about content, character or any other multi-syllabic ‘c’ words.

And there, the first anarchist, the first Deophagist is remembered with his smirk of self-satisfaction, exposing his nether regions to the prude and incontinet, middle fingers extended in the universal salute.