Contemporary music is like a sugar-coated chocolate treat, mass produced in a factory from a recipe formulated via machine, never touched by human hands, using ingredients that are six processes beyond anything recognisable as edible food, preserved in a vacuum wrapper and branded with a logo designed by psychologists to get the most out of you.
Real music is like your mother's home cooking, with fingerprints where she has nipped off the end of the pastry, filled with things she had in the cupboard and the inconsistencies of the oven leave a golden gradient along the crust.
So what do you want? Spend an hour being enriched by the scent of a raising pie? Or spend 65p in a vending machine to bleach your brain with a 20 second hit?
