ninety-seven lovers

I’m sitting here on a Saturday morning, by myself, listening to my playlist shuffle through The Who, The Flying Lizards and now, Pulp, with 97 Lovers.

I’ve never been quite sure why I like Pulp, beyond Common People, but for some reason, despite the pretentiousness and boredom, there’s something I kind of like.

Not everything needs to be a pop classic or a rock ‘n’ roll anthem. These forms can be beautiful, but so can be being completely bizarre. There’s nothing wrong with niche.

There’s nothing necessarily wrong with popular, either. The Beatles are wonderful. Kanye sucks. It’s all about the point behind it. The Beatles sing of peace and enlightenment, of love and people. Kanye is all about posture and glorification of his own ego.

That’s truly boring. And an indicator of massive insecurity. Anyone who needs to proclaim their greatness as loudly and often as that is a study for psychologists, not something to dance to.

I’m down for any and all music, if it isn’t done purely to sell tracks or glorify someone’s ego. Anything else is fine.

Target: 500 words
Written: 334 words, novella: The Mungk

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