When discussing the lack of interesting and/or talented independent musicians today, there are two names I never mention:  Lana Del Rey and Jack White.  I actually like Lana Del Rey, but I never mention her because she's an obvious, self-professed industry shill.  I appreciate that she owns it, and doesn't pretend to be doing the world any favors with her fake industry product, like so many of her artless peers do.  In fact Lana Del Rey has some great songs.  But she isn't independent, so she doesn't count.  I never mention Jack White because he was in the public eye before the "free music" movement destroyed the livelihoods of independent musicians worldwide.

By "independent" I mean independent.  Household-name independence.  Somebody who isn't beholden to a company, collective, or community, but can do whatever they please, both artistically and in their personal lives.  To put it into perspective, I like to say, "What would the world look like if the Beatles had never been ABLE to leave Liverpool?"

Look around.  The answer is everywhere.

I have never been into Jack White.  I bought a couple White Stripes albums to try them out, back when they were new, and nothing ever happened.  Some good songs, an obviously-talented guy, an interesting, consistent aesthetic, not to mention the artistic decision to use an amateur drummer and spread rumors (or was it true?) that they were married, or had been.  Fine, great, whatever.  It just didn't do anything for me personally.  But I never disliked The White Stripes.  In fact, I remember overhearing somebody at a table full of hipsters in Los Feliz or Silverlake say, "I hate Jack White," and I remember wondering why anybody would think that.  I wondered how such a thought would stay in the mind long enough to be verbally expressed.  It made no sense to me (until I solved the puzzle of hipness and the terrified, faux-confident conformity that goes with it, which took me a surprisingly long time to figure out).

But I've never been into him.  I never believed Tilda Swinton when she said in Only Lovers Left Alive, "Oh I love Jack White," as they're driving past his childhood home in Detroit.  Sometimes you can tell when an actor is lying.  It's okay, Tilda Swinton, don't feel bad.  He doesn't do anything for me either.

It's not as harsh as my Kanye criticisms, since Jack White is actually talented, but what's the point of writing it?  What makes this any different from the pointless vitriol spewed from the mouth of a fearful, angry hipster in Los Angeles 15 or 20 years ago?

This is what makes it different:

Here's the video, of the new song by "the most talented and refreshing musician around:"

If Jack White is the "most talented, refreshing musician around," and he's been in the public eye for over 20 years, that's my definition of a cultural indictment of the harshest-possible severity.  It's a heavy statement, one that levels the assault rifle of high artistic standards at everyone who has ever taken their music for free, and considered it their right to do so, and pulls the trigger until they are turned into free, subatomic dog food.

Try it sometime, walk into the mechanic and demand he change your water pump for free.  I mean, demand it.  Not only demand it, but act offended if he isn't satisfied with begging for 2 or 3 pennies after doing the job.  Do it.

The next time you walk into a restaurant, walk out without paying.  When somebody approaches you, tell them, "your food belongs to all of us."

So far, only musicians are expected to throw the fruits of their labors to the arrogant, spoiled pigs rolling around in the filth of their own entitled attitude.  "Thank you so much, thank you," we're expected to say, kneeling, dressed like beggars as we toss pearls and diamonds of beauty to the roiling mass of snorting, gluttonous swine who consume it without chewing, leaving jeweled crumbs of half-eaten melodies on their myopic, bloated guts.  Chunks of verses, entire choruses dripping, from the idiotic maw of a million drooling mugwumps, a drug-addled throng of self-important livestock preaching down derisively to their starving would-be subjects, dying at their feet.

It should serve as a stark, painfully-obvious warning against the dangers of community-think, the pitfalls of turning everything into community service. 

In the end, you will own nothing and be miserable.  After 15 years of living in cars and vans out of economic necessity, believe me, I would know.  I didn't have a bank account for 20 years. 

It's a codependent existence.  It isn't sustainable.  Community should be a parachute, at most.  Something to fall back on, have a few laughs with, and which should be contributed to as an act of free will.  It is not a natural, instant go-to setting for anyone interested in achieving oh I dunno,

an individual artistic vision?

Do something about it.  If you can't, it's already too late.  Stop wasting your time yelling in the street and move to the country with a million years' worth of food and ammunition, because the COLD WAR AGAINST THE ARTS HAS ALREADY BEEN LOST IN YOUR MIND.  The arts are the canary in the coal mine.  Ever notice the dead bird on the floor of the cage?  Ever observe the artless silence with which his corpse lies there drying like a forgotten piece of bird-jerky in the toxic vacuum in which only lungless, tuneless parasites can possibly survive?

That's your clue.  The fact that 20-year career veteran Jack White is considered "refreshing" is a red flag.  Whether you're into him or not.  Stop filling empty bottles of champagne with swamp water and pretending to get drunk.  Get out of the mine.  Warn anyone you meet on your way out, but don't waste your time on anyone who won't listen.  Let them eat cake.  Live and let die.

Pablo con Dios,

N