The End of Indie
Own it, clone it, buy it, dye it
Pink as perfumed poodle turds
Captured, fractured, manufactured
Glossy tunes and drossy words
Eat those labels. Seats round tables.
Sales figures rise and rise
Gentlemen you see before you
Profits. Let's homogenise.
Number One... The Android Sisters
Number Two... The Boyband Clones
Number Three... The Relaunch Diva
Number Four... The Dancefloor Drones
Number Five... The Barking Songstress
Number Six... The Sad Old Git
Number Seven... Self-Important Whingeing Bookworms
Oh... that's it.
Radio shows and video promos
Global tours and interviews
This ain't rock'n'roll, it's Wall Street
Better ditch the blue suede shoes
Sack that low-life in the corner
Obviously we've few positions
In the modern music business
For such trinkets as musicians.
Bigger, better, blander, bigger
(That's two biggers - never mind)
Buy that programme. Bribe that DJ
Get that docu-soap star signed.
Hire the fakers, image-makers
Talent-boosters, good producers
Anyone with pointy ears.
What emits from screens and speakers
Headphones or the Internet
Shouldn't have the power to challenge
Shock the senses or upset
Ten bland artists, two big labels
There's the future's grand remit
Finally, you'll beg for silence
And, of course, we'll sell you it.Reuse content