Melbourne I love you but, Drum circles?

Just because you have dreadlocks and can play guitar reasonably well, does not give you permission to sing songs about taking drugs in the bush. We’ve all been camping. We’ve all dappled in hallucinogens. It does not make you an alternative musician. It most certainly does not make you unique. In fact, it is the most un unique topic of conversation. Thanks for making my ears bleed. I can’t help that my eyes prefer to look at the inside of my brain than listen to another hip-hopping jukebox regurgitate their alternative lifestyle into a monotonous predictable “song” that suggests their insatiable appetite to prove that those dreadlocks serve a purpose. I know you live in Melbourne. I don’t need to hear predictable lyrics about what it’s like to walk down Sydney road, or to sip chai in Fitzroy, or to be on Centrelink and living off tuna tofu meat. I’ve done it. We’ve all done it. Get a bit more creative, or don’t call your self a songwriter. Yes your songs take me to another place. That is the ultimate duty of a song-writer. But you take me to la-la land in a Homer Simpsonesque thought bubble where I’m chasing a circus monkey and giggling insatiably at his antics. Monkeys are cool. This one time I saw a circus monkey dressed like an ancient Indonesian mythological dragon in a market in Malang Java. He was tied to a fence and demanding money from passers by. He was starving and had unusual welts on his legs. That was not cool. The monkey was still cool. He looked a bit like the monkey in my head. His name is Albert.  Albert in my head would never wear a jilbab because he’s not Islamic.  Nor would he ever have dreadlocks- he’s not a Rasta. He would never join a drum circle because he hates the sound of bongos. He does smoke weed. But he’s not Californian so he smokes it with tobacco. He uses tally-ho’s if they are around because at the end of the day all rolling papers are the same. He can roll a mad 3 paper like a seasoned big mama would roll White Widow with her eyes shut in a cafe in Amsterdam. He keeps his eyes open though because he’s only got small hands. It would be like one of us trying to roll a scoob with 3 sheets of A4 and having our eyes closed. He’s a good monkey. But he’s bounded by the limitations of Darwinism.