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this must be the place

I love to read about artists. The experience is very inspiring. After the rush of inspiration, of identification and of attempting to transport myself into the space of that artist, i inevitably reach a single conclusion.

I don't give a shit who fucked whom, what drugs someone did, who fought over credits with whom, or even who is nice to grandmas and kittens. I don't know these people, and won't. I have this [music|photograph|film] and in my experience with it, my history with it, i add it to my life. Nothing else matters, except in an academic sense, so not at all.

I am currently reading "this must be the place: the adventures of talking heads in the 20th century" by David Bowman. The writing is pretty terrible. Like a lot of music bios i have ready, there is a big mixture of "this happened, followed by this, while the country was experience x y and z." In this book, all of that is combined with dreck such as:

Then there was Adrian Belew. He belew everyone away with his rhino guitar.

Oh man. That is a terrible, terrible pun. Not that it will stop me from devouring the rest of this bio tomorrow, but still. ick.