Remember that time Led Zeppelin got a negative fan reaction upon first playing “Stairway to Heaven” in concert, and Jimmy Page cast a satanic hex on them, sacrificing a young virgin live on stage in the hopes that the Lord of Darkness would consume anyone who didn’t support what the band did 100 percent?
Or when Paul McCartney, upon hearing negative fan reaction to the Beatles’ Revolver album, called anyone who didn’t like it a “bloody tosser who lives in mum’s basement and is probably a closet fairy” as he sipped his tea and nibbled on a biscuit laced with LSD.
This also brings to mind John Hughes’ response to people who didn’t like Uncle Buck (yes, these people exist), when he hired actual hitmen to hunt them down and beat them within inches of their life until they posted ads in the newspapers talking about how his movies were the greatest things ever.
And lest we forget the time William Shakespeare famously told a crowd who booed the opening of Hamlet to “kindly fucketh offeth and dieth, thou fouleth Nazi-eths.” But then again, Shakespeare had a massive lisp, so everything he said sounded kind of funny.
(Note: I’m not too sure about all these details, but they probably happened.)
Oh wait, no they didn’t. Because artists from Bach to Rembrandt to Jack Kirby to Prince actually did care about their fans–also known as “the people who pay us money to keep producing our art”–and didn’t piss all over them. Because these people, and many others, for all their quirks, weren’t hate-filled and mentally unstable.
Okay, a lot of them probably were mentally unstable. But they didn’t take it out on their fans!
Let me fast-forward to the present . . . .2018, as we prepare to enter the third decade of the twenty-first century. We all know that we’re better, smarter, more empathetic, less superstitious, closer to world peace, healthier both physically and mentally, and more wise about the ways of the world and the workings of the universe than those idiots who lived before us.
Nowadays, we all know that creators of culture, both high and popular, are the pinnacles of human artistic and intellectual achievement, and if you don’t like what they do and if you have the unmitigated gall to let them know, the problem is actually you.
That’s right. If you don’t enthusiastically swallow what you’ve been given, you need to die.
I am not making this up. It’s time for you to go into that long dark night. You have been canceled. The future is here. Bye-bye, guy who doesn’t appreciate what the true artistes are doing. You clearly hate everyone who doesn’t look, think, act, and believe like you, unlike the creators of this stuff, who absolutely love everyone who doesn’t look, think, act, and believe like you. Except you, because you’re evil.
Why, it’s almost as if there’s a double-standard or something at play here!
- Don’t like the art or writing in this comic book? Go screw.
- Think this sequel to a reboot of a reset to the return of the son of A Major Franchise completely misses, and in fact subverts, the stuff that made the originals so great? Eat a bullet, Nazi scum.
- Not a fan of this author, seems more inclined to pack topical (i.e., ephemeral) political issues into the 350,000 words of book 12 in their 75-volume fantasy epic instead of telling a fantasy epic? Go die.
The true auteurs are doing it for the True Purpose Of Art (TM) which is not to entertain or provide amusement for you plebes in your boring, insignificant nine-to-five, office drone lives. Their job is to SPEAK TRUTH TO POWER and MAKE PEOPLE UNCOMFORTABLE, where, in this equation, “people” = “you” and “truth” = “the opposite of everything you hold dear.” Don’t like it? Don’t buy/read/watch/play it. Except if you don’t, you’re a bigot.
You see, here in the now (which is all that matters, remember), the fans are the problem. The product is pristine. You, me, us . . . we’re over. Gamers are over. Readers are over. Moviegoers are over. Entertainment is over.
Everything is over. It’s all done. Finished. Kaput.
In the immortal words of Jackson Pollack (probably) when encountered with negative responses to Untitled Splatter No. 73.6, “I oughtta murder all the bums!” before taking several shots at disapproving fans in the showroom with his trusty .357.
Because he was a true artist. Not like that loser Norman Rockwell. Heh, people actually enjoyed his stuff!
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