Welcome all to ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐น๐น๐โ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly – an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐๐๐ฌ ๐ผ๐ง๐ฉ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ฅ๐ค๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ playlists.
๐ฝ๐๐๐-๐๐๐ – ๐ .๐.๐
Charles strikes a match and waitsโฆ
The life of an artist can be an arduous one. But then again, so can any life. Letโs focus on the artist side of things, since thatโs what we all are. Artists, right? Being an artist used to mean just that. The arty type who is brilliant (or so they think) at arting, and not very much else. It was always forgiven that they could barely brush their teeth and dress themselves, because โoh, just LOOK at what they createโโฆ Correction: artists could do these things, but would very often not bother (in the same way that they would forget to eat), because it was just not important to them. Art ran in their veins. It was their raison dโรชtre. It plagued them. It excited them. It sedated them. Once they had created their latest masterpiece, it would be handed over to the man who knew nothing about art, but who was good at business. It was his job to advertise it and eventually flog it. There could even be a whole team involved. The artist was left to do what the artist was intended to do. Art. This way, everyone was happy and everyone stuck to what they did best. If said artist wanted to celebrate the completion of another piece by drinking himself into oblivion, then so be it. Little would suffer as a result, except maybe his liver.
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