Music Biz: The Wailing Lament of Sinead O’Connor

If there ever was a person who needed a bit of zen Buddhism, Sinead needs a big fucking dose now.

The eternal misappropriated child, O’Connor is always crying out for attention, and always wanting to be loved, in a world unforgiving as it is today, to make rambling videos only deepens the malaise as it brings in others who at the end of the day are no good for this constantly craving woman.

The music biz, an unforgiving trench of faeces spits out artists through its continually turning meat grinder. If you show any sign of doubt, you are sucked under, a music casualty forever maligned, a shadow of a shadow, one of Satan’s rejects. If you however reach up and take the bull by the horns, then you may have some longevity.

After all, what is Sinead O’Connor apart from someone who sang a Prince song sometime in the 90’s?

Call it the drugs, the mental illness, the sad childhood, there’s always a blame culture embedded in the perpetual victim, and it is a vicious cycle rearing its ugly head every time the hormonal cycle turns. Sinead blames everyone and everything else apart from herself.

Ripping up a picture of the Pope, was possibly the most endearing thing Sinead did, however there are a lot of brainwashed Catholics out there, and record sales did suffer after that escapade. Yes, the Catholic church is a safe place for paedophiles and other assorted monsters to conduct their evil practices without fear of reprisal, but it is also a heavily fortified institution that is followed by millions of mindless people who cannot think for themselves or formulate their own thoughts, and these morons do buy records as well.

So, what hope is there for Sinead, ‘stuck in the arse end of New Jersey’? Sure, she is stuck in a motel with some seriously dodgy decor, but it does look clean enough. This is the end of an artist who certainly did not play by the rules in the music biz, and many in a record company will cite her as an example of someone who just did not get it. You play the game, you listen, you get on, sell your soul, and you will get the reward if you are lucky enough, otherwise you end up like Sinead O’Connor, a sad lump of meat that’s been through the grinder, maybe three or four times.

Should there be any pity for such a creature? Certainly not, for to give pity to self-pity only equals a disgusting soup of sickly mewling detritus. With someone who has had all the opportunities as O’Connor and her propensity to throw it all away every single time, there should not be an ounce of pity, but only disgust.

When an artist gets to the abyss, they have two choices, either jump across or fall in.