A life without limits. A life without boundaries, without extent, without oppression. A life in which anyone can do anything at any time, regardless of their colour, their creed or their age. A perfect world? Not exactly.
Limitations are important. Limits are put in place to protect and serve the citizens of the world. While they may differ, the objective remains the same. We have legal minimum ages for drinking, driving and intercourse. These measures are imposed to minimise danger and maximise the safety of our world’s youths.
A 10 year-old cannot handle alcohol. A 10 year-old cannot handle driving. More importantly, a 10 year-old cannot handle the immense social pressures and media molestation that comes with stratosphere dwelling global superstardom.
My proposal – limits.
Internationally imposed minimum showbiz ages would help maintain the peace and stability of our harmonious planet. A peace that’s under constant threat from celebrated hellions and adolescent supernovas like Justin Bieber and Willow Smith.
A legal minimum showbiz age of 18 would mean innocent civilians would no longer have to suffer the inhumanity of their aural assaults. At least not until their voices had dramatically fallen in frequency.
Child stars are like weeds. Mercilessly germinating and relentless wriggling through your freshly laid tarmacadum until they spout up through your drive and before you know it, your car’s up a tree.
The latest ragweed on the cultural horizon is ‘YouTube sensation’ Heather Russell. Brought to us courtesy of Darth Cowell who has signed her to his SyCo label. Presumably to honour her talent and provide her with the opportunity to heal our broken world through the power of song. Also, to earn a shit-ton of cash.
Despite Heather starring straight through the camera lens and into my soul in a way I find extremely sinister, she can certainly sing. The kid has skillz. Maybe even mad skillz. Maybe her skillz could pay her billz. Who knows? I do know that she doesn’t need it now. Not yet.
If children are truly talented why rush them into their career? True talent has a way of squirming its wormy way into the mainstream. Meanwhile they can sharpen their skills so that by the time they ‘arrive’ they’ll be better performers.
According to our mutual friend Wikipedia the average life expectancy of females in Canada is 82.9 years. Giving Heather Russel approximately 72 years in which to take a bloody cleaver to our carefully controlled chart music and hack out a career for herself.
Of course, as a parent, every day your child isn’t selling records is a day you’re not making money. That simply won’t do. Two parents hit hard by the recession are Will and Jada-Pinkett Smith. They’re so broke they were forced to traffic their daughter. Effectively selling her to Jay-Z’s Roc Nation label in a desperate effort to claw back some cash. It’s a tragic story. Mainly because it meant the world had to endure this.
Ally my ladies? All my ladies?!? You don’t have any ladies! You’re a fucking toddler! You have play-school and Barney the Dinosaur. No 10 year-old should be concerned about their ‘haters’. They should be falling over and making gun noises. Ironically had Ms. Smith not released this dentist’s drill of a song she’d have no haters at all. The circle of loathing is complete.
Will Smith has been around the block a few times. In West Philadelphia born and raised, on the playground is where he spent most of his days. Surely if anyone knows about taste and decency it’s Big Willy. He must be aware that anyone with any ounce of musical righteousness will not only actively dislike, but seriously question Whip My Hair. Broad sexual connotations are commonplace in mainstream pop music, but they’re not usually heard spewing like paedophillic vomit from the spout of a young child. I projectile vomit every time I hear it. I’ve thrown up four times during the typing of this article. I’m currently splashing my hands against a bile-coated keyboard.
Many of the greatest bands and artists began young. But they honed their talent and turned up when their time was right. Excluding Michael Jackson, has there ever been a child star in music who has found massive commercial success and been legitimately good? None of these kids are even close to Michael Jackson. Which is a relief for many reasons.
For once I’m convinced my hate isn’t a psychotic byproduct of my own self-loathing. It’s legitimate. Everyone hates child pop-stars. It might be their money. Perhaps it’s their unjustifiable optimism. Ir maybe it’s their naivety in the face of the crushing cosmological inequity that ultimately renders our every act completely insignificant. Aw, they don’t even know how fundamentally infinitesimal they are. Bless ’em.
Still, it matters not what fuels hate. Only that hate exists. And in the case of this next star, enough hate exists to construct Earth a second moon.
This Bitter Lattice of Grievance [or blog as it’s colloquially known] has been active for months now and I, like you am surprised it’s taken me this long to launch an acerbic attack against grinning fuckfringe Justin Bieber. Better late than never. Which according to him is a word I should never say. Shit, there I go again. Sorry JB.
Rather than being shot from a trebuchet into a vat of boiling piss, Bieber shot to fame after American talent scout Scooter Braun discovered his videos on YouTube. Since then he’s subjected to his unique brand of noise pollution. To his credit, at least he has the courtesy not to sing live.
But discontent with his aural air-raids he’s launched his latest venture. Part biopic, part concert film 3D shitflick – Justin Bieber – Never Say Never. Never say never? He’s breaking his own rules in the tagline. Bieber you hypocrite! Limits are for the common good remember. Sometimes it pays to give up. If Bieber maintains this mantra I predict my own cultural suicide within the next decade.
Everyone that pays to see Never Say Never is placing cash directly into his tiny boy-pockets. Most of which he’ll spend on his $750 bi-weekly hair cut. I’m not even making that up. And for what? For a performance that will transcend the ages? A performance that will stay with you? It’d stay with me. Those harrowing images of how civilization has let its collective grasp on reality slide into the shit slurry, and instead of taking it out and wiping it clean, just pisses it into the gutter, gently eroding what life is left one pitiful molecule at a time.
Everything directly or indirectly related to this project is a waste of atoms. A waste of matter. I’d rather directly fund the fascist regime of Big Rob by going to see –
MUGABE: The Motion Picture 3D
Directed by Uwe fucking Boll.
Article first published as International Minimum Showbiz Age on Technorati.