They call it manufactured pop, as if that were something to be ashamed of - but we are a manufacturing country. Down our conveyor belts come cars, and shoes, and biscuits, and guns, and pop bands. Useful things and beautiful things. Things that make us go faster, and things that make us feel like we are going faster. Things that we love passionately for a day, and then throw away, and things that we love passionately for a day, and then keep forever.
Being able to plan for and make our necessary things -instead of relying on accidents, or nature, to supply them -is one of the first signs that a society has achieved civilization. And what could be more necessary than pop? What else should we aim to pump out in such greedy, thrilling, giddying amounts?
The factory is a democratic place. Sometimes, the people working on the floor come cruising in on a Monday morning, still wearing Saturday night’s make-up and Sunday morning’s smile, and say, “Sod this.” They pull off their hair-nets, and jump on the conveyor belt themselves. They announce that they are pop stars, now. They make a band.
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