Hairballs

All Artists Steal

Since primitive man first stretched the hide of some slain and flayed beast tightly over a hollowed out tree stump and, after a few inquisitive taps, sat cross-legged before his invention beating out in faithful translation the simple song in his soul – a simple song which nevertheless touched profoundly the souls of his fellow men, inspiring some to dance and others to chant, but in all a feeling of awe and wonderment – music has undergone much refinement.Perhaps from that same tree, from somewhere higher up on the trunk, another drum was fashioned which, when struck, made a sharper, clearer sound, and from one of its thinner branches a rudimentary flute; crude instruments, making elementary noises, that down through the ages evolved and diversified into the multifarious array played, and heard, today: be it a doleful solo performance on acoustic guitar only, or the majestic swoopings and soarings of an entire symphony orchestra, employing wind, string, brass and percussion all at the same time; or any of the duos, trios, quartets, quintets, choirs and ensembles in between, performing the gamut of styles from a cappella to acid jazz via pop, punk, rap, funk, soul, rock'n'roll, etc, plugged or unplugged, live or pre-recorded, up to and including the solitary 'whiz kid' at the PC in his bedroom who, with the very latest technology literally at his fingertips, can, more or less accurately, recreate any or all of these foregone sounds, notes, tones, chords, riffs, movements or styles, fuse them all and introduce new ones, merely by tapping a few keys.But regardless of such meticulous refinement, and such glorious, inharmonious diversity, music, since those first primitive beatings, remains unchanged. It is still in essence – at least when made honestly and no matter how it is made – the faithful translation of the songs in our souls, inspiring some of us to dance, others to sing along, but in all of us a feeling of awe and wonderment. But it is not always made honestly.

It is a commonplace that all artists steal, but they do not all steal in the same way. There is a world of difference, for example, between those who openly and respectfully acknowledge their influences and in the spirit of homage proudly wear, alongside their own hearts, someone else's heart on their sleeves and those – undeserving of the title of artist at all – who surreptitiously pilfer the ideas of others and try to pass them off as their own.

Desirous merely of fame, as a spoiled child craves attention, this latter type will remorselessly cull, from whoever is currently attracting acclaim, everything they need to launch themselves into, or keep themselves in, the spotlight.

And yet, despite all their thievery they are not, strictly speaking, thieves – for, after all, stolen goods retain their value – they are not thieves but forgers, or, more accurately still, forgeries: worthless imitations of something invaluable. They lack that essential quality, undeniable though difficult to define, that exudes from the core of all true artists, pervading and authenticating their works as a watermark authenticates currency.

And, ironically, what's the simplest way to detect a forgery?

Hold it up to the light.

Taken from the novel Debaser