Pissing Vinegar? What's That?

You can't just come back after, what, two years? Has it been that long? I'm too lazy to check. Anyway, you can't just have all of a sudden some striking return to the profanity-oozing vitriol that got people to visit the Webhole in the long, long ago when it was known as the Emporium. But, if I've learned one thing in my 32 years, it's that your fiancee is not one to be arguing with. When she said she wanted more Pissing Vinegar, I don't know if it was for her, or for the rest of you. However, I know when I must do what I must.

But, you don't get a new PV just like that. Like I said, it's not an old pair of shoes you grab out of the closet and strap onto your feet, then run a marathon. It takes time to get back into game shape; maybe more time than I care to put in. Besides, like I've said before, I'm just not as angry as I used to be. I consider this a good thing, but apparently the majority would rather see me seethe than breathe. So, I'll do what I can. Don't expect me to fake it, though; I'm not going to rail against something unless I firmly believe railing is in order. With that in mind, don't expect that every other week stuff I spoiled you kids with all those years ago. When it's time to vent, I'll vent, not before. It's going to take time.

You need to be patient.

When it's time, you'll know.





Okay, here's the situation...

My job is fucking awesome. Working in a record store is a wonderful, beautiful dream. The store is my happy place, my utopia and my all-star rock show all in one. When I think back to all of my other jobs, none of them come close. Granted, my choices are bored-to-tears tourism centre lackey, overworked and under-appreciated radio announcer and call centre verification worker. So, I suppose it's kind of saying having sex with a human is better than having sex with a pine tree, a bottle of barbicide or a cheese grater. Suffice to say, as a music lover since 1984, I can think of no better job on earth.

Unfortunately, it's probably back to the cheese grater before too long.

There's truly something disheartening about the modern music scene. It's sad to say, but looking back on the arrival of Napster and the horrified cries from the rich guys in fancy suits warning of the death of the industry... they could have been right, you know? I don't want to admit it; I was always a believer that if the music was good enough, people would buy it. We, the consumers, would continue to support the art form, no matter what. The landscape would change, but at the end of the day, the trees would still sprout fruit for the harvest.

But, take a look; the orchard looks like a scene from a Tim Burton movie. Album sales continue to plummet. Digital sales are skyrocketing; a buck a piece for severely reduced sound quality songs, consumed happily by millions of apathetic souls who don't know bit rates from bison shit. Those who do care about sound are taking full advantage of today's faster internet by downloading lossless torrent files in about the same time it took to download one song ten years ago. The technology has gotten too good, and the industry has handled the situation so poorly that no one even cares if it dies anymore. The greedy record companies deserve to falter, let music go back to the people. They're all valid opinions to have; I certainly can't blame anyone who hates on the industry that frantically threw lawyers at the problem, rather than learning the digital ropes and trying to find a sensible solution.

Some argue that the music industry signed its own death warrant by releasing a shitty product and charging too much for it. I actually agree with this; $20 for a CD with one good song on it is not performance. But, with the internet the way it is, you don't have to pay sight unseen anymore; check something out and buy it if you like it. It only makes sense. Sadly, far too few people use this philosophy. I have a regular visitor at the store who is first in line when one of her two favourite artists puts out a new CD. She often stops in to ask what we recommend. That's one of the greatest things about being a music buff working at the record store; other music buffs want to talk to you about what's out there. Problem is, nowadays most of the people who ask me what's good (the aforementioned customer among them) are taking that advice directly to their torrent search engine. On a daily basis, a conversation takes place in the store where one person is interested in buying a CD, but doesn't because their friend offers to burn them a copy. It happens right under my nose that often; people don't even feel bad about walking into my store and announcing that they're doing their part to put it out of business.

The future is just as bleak; the kids don't even consider buying music unless it's cheap. If it's easier to shell out ten bucks for it than to use up the time and bandwidth downloading a burning it, most kids will go for it. But, finding a regular customer under the age of 25 is more and more rare.

So, what do we do about it? In my case, nothing. If our store is going to be closed, the damage is done. Whether or not it happens sooner or later is no matter; even if we have a really busy summer, we'll still be looking over our shoulders all fall. The big bad Wal-Mart up the street doesn't help; I've learned that 95% of the population is more than willing to spend an extra $2 on gas as long as they can save $1 on a CD or DVD. It's the same with every other product, too; that's a lot of the reason why a good dozen stores have gotten out of our mall in the three years since Wal-Mart opened. It's looking grim in that mall, and things aren't getting better. When the mall is owned by an outside company in a large city, I guess they could give a rat's ass whether the spaces are filled as long as they make more than they spend on the place. I could go on for pages and pages more, but I've got to end this rant before I smash the keyboard in frustration.

So, to summarize, Wal-Mart is an evil, fiery pit of despair, and the music industry is a sinking ship. Looks like I'm swimming to hell.

Here endeth the ePISSle.