Monday, November 1, 2010

Kenny G is coming to the Midland; the apocalypse nears

Posted By on Mon, Nov 1, 2010 at 2:59 PM

This fucking guy.
  • This fucking guy.

Kenny G, who I hate with the white-hot fury of one thousand suns, will be appearing at the Midland, just in time for the most obnoxious holiday on the planet. (Christmas.)

The dark times are upon us.

This man's flowing fucking hair and his silken pantyhose horn lines ooze self-laudatory smugness. When I hear the slightest strains of Kenny G's sad excuse for elevator music, I hear hatred. I hear the sound of an elephant shitting thumb-tacks. I hear pure rage.

It's almost as if Kenny G is looking down on me, smiling with a warm, condescending mercy as he blows his weird horn and the wind flows through his curly locks. Kenny G is more famous than me. Kenny G makes more money than me. He pities my depths of bottomless, irrational rage. And he forgives me for it.

So, Kenny G, you can take your warm, soft-focus horn lines with their contemporary jazz accoutrements and you can shove them up your ass. The world does not need your dentist-office smooth jazz, nor does it need its sparkling chimes, mauve-colored keyboards and slow-panning fade-outs.

You know what, Kenny G? My therapist thinks that I might be transferring my pent-up rage onto your image. (God knows why. Even that guy from Pitchfork agrees that you made the '90s a significantly shittier time to be alive.) But, I'm going to go ahead and take it upon myself to forgive you. Yeah. Hear that, you frizzy-haired son of a bitch? Yeah? You like that?

Ahem. Sorry. Anyway, Kenny G, I've found a reason that we may be able to co-exist: because you don't know who Weezer is. (Even though you collaborated with them on 2009's mistake album, Raditude.)

"I don't know anything about Weezer -- nothing," Kenny G, who's sold 75 millions albums worldwide, admitted to Spinner. "I've heard the name, but I never knew any of their songs [except] some song about a sweater ... with the wool coming apart?"

I dig that. In a really stunted, fucked-up way, that's actually sort of awesome. I'll let my hatred go, Kenny G, on one condition: Stay out of my grandmother's tape deck, you no-good son of a bitch.

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