Caught By the Fuzz

I finally called the cops on the assholes down the hall who play godawful, repetitive, tailor-made-for meth heads, "music" at heavy high volume at all hours of the night and day. I had had enough. Telling them politely to turn it down wasn't so effective. I had considered knocking one more time to ask them:

"Hey you fuckin' E-tards, do ya take requests? If ya do, have you heard that supah-dope deep house cut called "If ya don't turn that souless shit down I'll have ya kicked out of the building?"

Imagine, for just a moment, the shittiest dance music you have ever heard and then multiply the shitty factor by a thousand. That would get you right there, right at the sort of aural punishment I have been subjected to for months. At high volume. Manufactured bass and drum pulse and pound like continuous boots to the head at 180 BPM.

What kind of fucking drugs to you have to be on that makes that music sound good? Oh right, chemical kinds that fuck up your perceptions so much that some woman's shrieking vocals streamed through a vocoder suddenly sounds as gorgeous as Maria Callas doing Madame Butterfly. Riiiiight.



The Vocoder, astounding effect either used brilliantly, or abused horribly depending on the genre

The police did a good job. It's silent now.

But for how long?

currently listening to: SILENCE