From Stylus Magazine:
He didn’t know whether to smile or scoff, until three minutes in when he recognized the vocals—he grabbed at his ears and threw the headphones off across the room. “It’s that fucking cunt Calvin Harris, int it?” Then he turned to me. “You’re a fucking dick!”
Friends, I write not to condemn or defend the arrogant, young Mr. Harris. (His album is very listenable; just deal with it.) Instead, I wish to discuss the inner violence of music aficionados.
Rage! The non-audio antics of Calvin Harris drove reviewer Ally Brown’s friend to a fit of violence. I can sympathize, because inside me is a similar, frothing madness in reaction to one Norah Jones.
Hating Norah Jones is so five years ago! But my wounds are still raw. She ruined Blue Note! Her oppressive adult contemporary continues to ruin my every trip to the mall! And now she’s ruining Wong Kar Wai movies! I have a legitimate reason to be upset.
But why violence? Why must I knock over displays at Yankee Candle? Why must I stab my friends? It’s just music, right?
It’s better to just listen. If it’s Calvin Harris and you like it, so be it. It’s better than false positives, where I end up bludgeoning someone just because they’re listening to KT Tunstall.
And now it’s time for my pills!
Bonus Insight Into M’s Psyche: I can’t hear the name KT Tunstall without thinking of Pac-Man rip-off KC Munchkin. Yeah, childhood Odyssey2!