As I’m writing this, there is something truly beautiful happening.

After approximately 14 minutes and 59 seconds of unworthy attention, another buzz band is fading into the realm of obscurity populated by noxious acts such as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and the Arctic Monkeys. This particular group was distinctively undeserving of the praise rained down upon them from Blog Heaven, and yet they managed to parlay that fame into a mostly sold-out tour and an appearance on SNL (for which they canceled two shows and a festival appearance - way to sell out your fans for exposure). I’m of course referring to the four uber-preppy kids of Vampire Weekend, possibly one of the worst bands to ever back a fantastic name with contrived non-relevant music.

Thank God it’s over.

My apologies to any of you hipsters out there who were in the first wave of year 2k7.8 to pick up on these guys. I’m sure in your mind they were going to change the face of music and culture with their “afro-pop-inspired sweater rock,” but they’ve managed to inspire nothing more than a few drummers in New England to throw out their use of rhythm and a couple of kids in the Midwest to wear pastels. Which would be a feat in itself if A) drummers didn’t need rhythm, and B) kids who wear pastels in the Midwest didn’t get beaten on a regular basis. It would appear that the amount of cultural change that VW has inspired is minimal and unneeded. So I'm sorry, I really am. I'm sorry for all of the money that you spent buying sweaters and cheeky button-up shirts in an attempt to look like a Cambridge student, and I'm sorry for all of the hours that you probably spent dancing to Vampire Weekend songs trying to understand the “uniqueness” of their “groove.”

As you can see, the deeper that you get pulled into the grips of VW’s music, the more sharply your understanding of rhythm dips. You can’t argue with science.

But what of the deep philosophical questions brought up by this group of enlightened philosophers? “Who gives a fuck about an oxford comma?” A very important question indeed. I'm more interested in some of the more existential mysteries that they could’ve tackled, like “what the fuck is a mansard roof?” Or the ever-mystifying “what the hell does Cape Cod have to do with Kwasa Kwasa?” Undoubtedly, all questions for the ages that these bold young men could have addressed on their debut album, but for reasons unknown they decided to let these great enigmas of reality go unanswered. Perhaps in their exalted semi-Ivy League minds, they felt that the world was not ready for this level of information. Surely if the masses were privy to such universal knowledge the world would end (and we wouldn’t have to wait for the French to fire up CERN). We should all thank them, thank them dearly for merely grazing the topics lightly enough to make music writers and armchair philosophers like myself scratch our scruffy heads and say “what the fuck?!” Oh, and we should show our gratitude and buy their record. Summer scarves aren’t cheap, you know.

But I digress … let’s get back to relevance. Good music should resonate with listeners to the very core of their personality and being. Artists that have stood the test of time have written songs that are not only pleasant to the ears and hearts of listeners, but also have lyrical content that people can relate to. This is the ever-elusive “relevance” to which all artists with a drop of altruistic blood should aspire. Unfortunately in the case of Vampire Weekend, what you get is a sad bunch of college kids who probably didn’t want to grow up and go to work with their dads in finance or real estate, so they remake a Paul Simon record with enough 2k7 lo-fi to appeal to hipsters. It’s altogether disgusting that this band made enough noise among non-professional media outlets to get a record contract and actually chart, but the good news is that by the end of 2k8 they will have disappeared into the abyss of none-hit wonders. and never be heard from again. It’s a small consolation to see 15 minutes of fame dry up after suffering through it, but it always warms my heart to see something die a deserving death.

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Hello pretentious indie masses! It's time for another installment where I rip the shutter shades off of your face and expose you to the light of day. I hope that you put on sunblock because with as low as that AA v-neck is cut, you’re going to have one hell of a weird sunburn after this!

Today my target of mass disinterest is everyone’s favorite ex-A&R expense account groupie turned pseudo-intellectual “R&B singer.” First off, let me just say that I totally appreciate the fact that someone who was employed in what has become the music industry job that requires the least talent has herself become an artist. In the days of yore, an A&R rep was the one responsible for finding raw talent and grooming them for stardom. During the course of a band's career, their A&R would be the go-to person for help in choosing and arranging songs, and would sometimes even act as the band’s producer. These days, an A&R job consists of spending days on Myspace shifting through shit bands and throwing around phrases like “they’re amaaaazing!” or “I like them, but I'm not in love with them.” So just how awesome is it that one of these scum-sucking parasites actually became a buzz act? I am rolling around in the irony right now.

Santogold’s voice has the timbre of the chain-smoking spawn of a less talented Cyndi Lauper and a more melodic Lil’ Wayne. Only somewhat sonically pleasing after being doubled and tripled in the mix and buried in reverb, this “singer” manages to come off as a nasally MIA in desperate need of every engineer's default hide-the-suck studio aid, AutoTune (and trust me Ill get to MIA sooner or later). Her backing tracks, some of which could’ve been Sublime songs if Bradley had been addicted to acid instead of heroin, are so lo-fi and repetitive that they resemble something that a band of stoned 13-year-olds who just got their instruments for Christmas would produce out of their garage.

And oh, dear God, the lyrics! Can I be the first person to go on the record as saying that as soon as you start announcing yourself as a “creator” and an “innovator” in your music, then you are neither? If you are really creating and innovating then you don’t have a need to scream it from the mountain; you just do it. There’s no need to beat your chest and announce to the world that you are the first to do something, especially if you’re merely following in the footsteps of a line of “artists” that stretches for decades. Honey, your press releases are really getting to your head. Maybe if your single didn’t steal the melody from a Bic Runga song that was featured on the American Pie soundtrack I could take you seriously. No … probably couldn’t even then.

For those of you who are reading this and foaming at the mouth, get over it! Disconnect yourself from Pitchfork’s ass and stop believing that everything that some emaciated guy who lives in Brooklyn says is dogma. No matter how “amaaaazing!” some blogger or A&R rep or PR company says someone is, it doesn’t make them good. Ladies, in five years, when you’ve moved on from dressing in RCRD hats and leggings because your hair is all ratty from doing too much blow and your nether regions have been wrecked from the kid you popped out, you’ll be saying 'Santo-who?' And guys, when you’re 26 and you can’t pick up the alt-girls anymore because your beer gut scares them away and your band hasn’t made it “yet,” you’re not going to care about Santogold because you’re going to be too worried about how you’re going to pay child support for the kid that you accidentally fathered with that girl who used to look good in those leggings.

Just as seasons change and we all turn to dust eventually, so shall bad music disappear into the sands of time. And although Santogold, formerly a talentless industry scumbag and currently a talentless industry product, carries the namesake of a precious and durable metal, she has all the evanescent and valuable qualities of poop flushed down the drain of culture.

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