As if I didn’t have enough of these dated sounding synthesizer-heavy records, I had to go out buy one more. You know, I think if you threw these on the record player and played them for me blindfolded I wouldn’t be able to tell any of them apart. Why? Because once you’ve heard one antiquated keyboard you’ve heard them all, right? Jesus. How much money am I going to blow on these records? At this point we probably could’ve sent at least one of our children through college with the money I’ve handed over to various independent record companies, diy artists, and small mom and pop brick and mortars. My children won’t get an education, but hey they can sit around and listen to spooky synth albums to their hearts desire. What if their hearts don’t desire to do that? Well, I guess they could just sell my collection of synth albums and then put themselves through a trade school. Or at least buy a textbook that would help them pass their GED exam.

You know what? I’m being pretty hard on myself. I buy these album because I like them. I appreciate what the artist is doing. I appreciate all the time that was spent creating these eerie and sometimes haunting pieces that are committed to beautifully colored vinyl(sometimes in multiple variants even.) And these homegrown record companies that believe in these bedroom musicians and back them…these same bedroom musicians that still live at their parents house and don’t have a real job other than occasionally selling weed to high school kids in the Pizza Hut parking lot on Tuesdays through Fridays. Those independent record companies give hope to otherwise hapless, naive, clueless musicians that can’t get over the fact that they’ll never be more than a weed peddler. Selling weed to local tweakers and high school dropouts that say those demo tapes said musician/weed peddler gave to them are “rad” and “totally awesome” and “sounds like that Halloween dude” only because they want some free weed. I mean, these synth dudes don’t even play out. You can’t go see them unless they’re holding a concert in their mom and stepdad’s basement, and that’s only when their mom and stepdad are getting along, or aren’t having friends over for a euchre tournament.

Hey, but why am I judging? I love these records. Only the deepest of souls can create that sort of haunting music. The kind of music that takes you from your current surroundings and puts you in another place and time. Musical narratives that tell tales of post-apocalyptic wastelands, murderous souls, psychic zombies, and new age-y scientists messing with DNA and creating monsters from our own ambition. Sure, that may sound pretentious…ridiculous even…but sometimes we need ridiculous to get us through the day. Sometimes a little escapism is just what the doctor ordered. We can’t play this game called life 24/7 without eventually losing our marbles. We need distraction. We need an alternate route to shake things up. I’ll take my route with a moog and a side of sci fi, thank you very much.

Besides, what’s it to you? Why do you care about how I consume my escapism? It’s a very personal thing, you know. I don’t go judging you about all the money you spend on those Magic: The Gathering cards, or the hundreds of dollars you spend a year on sports tickets and $10 warm beers at those games. Or how about the money you dump in video games and video game consoles? Really? Have you even played all those games that are stacked in your closet? Because I’ve spun every record in my collection…multiple times, pal. And by the way, how does that little sports car handle in winter? That midlife crisis mobile you cruise around in. You do realize we live in Indiana, right? But hey, I’m not judging. I wouldn’t judge the guy with the internet porn habit, either. No sir. Not me. Just because you like watching chimps in diapers spanking a woman dressed like a nurse in a nun’s habit doesn’t mean you’re sick in the head or anything.

Wait, actually I think it kinda does make you sick in the head.

Editors Note: The views in this article do not reflect those of Jhubner73.com or any of its subsidiaries. We here at Jhubner73.com stand behind those bedroom keyboardists trying to make a living at doing what they love. The individual that wrote this piece is disturbed and all messed up on some free weed he got from some musician that lives in his parents basement. That musician plays the tuba, not the synth. He’s disturbed and needs help. Once again, we here at Jhubner73.com do not endorse anything that was stated in this article.

Well, unless you do like watching a chimp in a diaper spank a woman dressed like a nurse wearing a nun’s habit. That’s completely sick and you should seek out help immediately. Jesus, is that how your mom raised you? You should be ashamed. 

 

 

 

 

6 thoughts on “One More F*****g Synthesizer Album

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