The Day Music Died

It was an unseasonably cold day in early September. Birds were still chirping in the trees. A girl walked down the street with her headphones on a little too loud. I know this. I saw it happen. This was just before music died. I know this too. I saw it happen. It wasn't the day that Don McLean sung about. That was the day that the music died. This was the day that music died.

Some said that music had been sick for some time, others said that music had been killed. The truth is that no one thing killed the music, but that everyone let it happen. The radio didn't help things. It spread the music, but it also created the commercial. Then people got the bright idea to try to buy music, to try to own it. Before long music was being sold into slavery. Music tried to fight its way out, but failed in the end. Now music is dead.

There was no funeral, but everyone mourned it in their souls. Some mourned that they had done nothing to save it. Some mourned that their wallets were empty. But some mourned the passing of a close friend. Soon, suicide rates increased, war broke out everywhere; some even had to sell gold records for food. I watched it all with a bleak expression; saddened, but justified.

If I was honest, though, I must admit that this day I am describing was not really the day that music died. In fact, music is still alive. Everyone enjoys self-nihilistic fantasies from time to time; to dream of your own funeral, or how sad everyone will be to see you go.