What could possibly be the point of modern music? In it, we accept in the space of three and a half minutes what we would never tolerate from a peer over the course of a month: mindless, droning, sentimental repetition. It is all the better if it can aid some mindless labor or task at home; anything to keep our minds inundated with the notion that such vacuity, such endless gear shifting is indeed normal. There might have been a time when music was able to offer us the salve of affirmation for our romantic needs, but now, it is only monotonous, predictable sound. The tunes that come flapping out of the noise-holes of most artists are a sort of protracted adolescence; childish disappointment elevated to the discussion of a dinner party in which everyone must look around to read the signature of their social climate to learn what kinds of feelings are worth having. It isn't enough that the music itself is repetitive by nature; our culture insists on repeating the actual songs every chance it can turn a profit. More of it must be produced, never too complicated, and never with arches, themes and motifs larger than what one can ascertain on the way to something else entirely. By the time the musicians come to town, their entirely non-poetic, word-based art has been memorized by the audience through endless repetition. The musician has only to sit back and listen to the words he wrote with the highest sentiment become cheapened through more and more, and quicker and quicker commodification. Modern music, eventually, beats us completely into submission. It is the ultimate proof that mankind will substitute just about any stimulus for quality.