Perhaps it’s the genre that killed you
A music review expressed from the perspective of a fictional character
A music critic once wrote that Ian Curtis’ suicide was the ultimate artistic statement. Without it, he said, Joy Division’s final album, Closer, would not have held the same weight today. The album, as well as the tragedy that would make Curtis saint-like in goth-heaven, helped define generations of post-punk bands to come, thus, Curtis was hailed as the post-punk prophet.
As if nihilism had any business intermingling with Destiny.
Their masterpiece was reduced to the obvious — they became their own punchline, Eddie thought as he looked around the living room and the conjoining kitchen — the utter disaster of a kitchen. The way the one green neon light bulb in the chain of otherwise plain lights shone on the kitchen’s back wall; one could make out a long grease stain slowly making its way down the back of the oven. Eddie found himself staring at it for a few minutes — he grew kind of annoyed with himself that he couldn’t stop looking.
Eddie slinked to the sofa. Then that beautiful, tempestuous sound of industrial tin drums pounding in syncopated apostrophes — saws slicing urban concrete-sounding guitars slide into hearing range (walls of perpetual agony) — the sound of poetic…
