I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker

Thirty minutes. It's all I've got, and not much in my eyes. The recording room is a mess, covered in paper and recording equipment. Thirty minutes.

All I've ever wanted to do. In thirty minutes. Shaking out of my trance, I crack my knuckles – a habit I picked up from my mother – and get to work. Plugging in a tonne of chords, testing microphones and guitars, sorting sheets covered in lyrics and chords. It takes at least ten minutes before I can hit the red button and start playing.

I grew up jealous. Mum and Grandma, they always talked about the 'old times'. They made it sound so great. When the world was still young and free, a brighter place to live in. Now though, I feel like we are being abused by time. What happened to the joy of not knowing everything? I believe our biggest mistake as a new generation was not accepting the liberty of love, and instead, always trying to outdo one another, in every single aspect of life: technology, fashion, music... the latter being the worst of them all. Seriously, I don't even know what to call music and what to call sexualised trash.

The microphone squeaks loudly. I have to record the first song five times before it's worthy of consideration. Smiling to myself, I reshuffle the papers for the next song. This was my favourite, written about one of my childhood friends who was born without hearing. I always pitted her, because she couldn't have any appreciation for music.

I guess I was born into the wrong generation – my dream from three years old was to be a punk rocker. With flowers in my hair. But this world, of the 21st century, couldn't care less. No, they're all about fiddling with buttons on special keyboards and auto-tuning voices until they sound like robots.

Ten minutes. The adrenaline rushes through my body, reaching the tips of my toes. It's happening. By the time I reach my third song, I feel like I could get used to this. It's just me, my guitar, and a microphone. I even put flowers in my hair, just for fun.

I've never stopped asking the question, 'What happened?' How did we go from writing letters in the mail to sending emails with the click of a button so quickly? Why don't kids wear second-hand clothes anymore, why don't footballers have long hair? When did accountants start controlling our world, when did money become such an overrated salutation to happiness? When I compare living back then to our world now, all I see is broken. Broken people, broken relationships, broken morels in a broken society.

Time flies. It's not long before I stop recording, down half a bottle of water and yank out all the chords. When everything is wrapped up neatly, and the equipment desk is clear once again, I thank the manager and head back home.

Six hours is how long it takes me to edit the songs, add the beats and finalises the production. The caffeine is coursing through me, making me feel like I'm buzzing. The three songs couldn't load onto the disk fast enough, but soon I'm jumping on the bed, high on coffee and in total shock that it actually worked.

•••••

Light. The worst thing to ever evolve at 9am. Groaning, I roll out of bed and onto the floor, taking with me the blanket and pillows. Thirty minutes later, I'm in the shower and belting out songs from the seventies. Cold water takes over. I sigh, turning off the taps and stepping out into the small space we call a bathroom.

There's a beeping noise from my room. Still in my towel, I rush into it and see what it is. A new email is flashing on the screen of my laptop, from someone called 'David Kon'. I open it. And almost die of screaming.

Hi Georgia,

I noticed you'd left a spare USB on the desk, but you'd already left. I couldn't help it; I put it in my laptop and I am still in shock at what you've produced. I would really like to pay for the advertisement on iTunes, with your permission of course, because I think what you've got is really golden. Sorry once again for being nosey, but it did really pay off I guess.

Thanks,

David Kon.

(Supervisor at S.R.C.)

He'd picked up my back-up USB that I must've forgotten. The desk was a mess, after all. Once my vocal chords had calmed down – wouldn't want to lose them now, after all – I closed the email and re-opened it, just to make sure. And that's how I started one of my own revolutions.

Three weeks. Each day passes in anticipation, nothing changing. I work six hours, five days a week. I sleep twelve hours every night. I eat three times a day. I watch Netflix in-between every-thing. David asks me to attend a photo shoot. I design a cover for my EP. I even get interviewed by some official manager of iTunes, because David claimed I was so good.

Sunday. David emails me once again to state that the advertisement was official, and right this second it was on the home page of the iTunes store.

Jumping on my laptop, I bring up iTunes and head to the store. When I see my face, along with the title of my album, I freeze. It feels as if the world freezes. And then carries on as if nothing happened.

Four weeks now, and I'm up to three hundred and twelve buys on iTunes. I'm still in shock at how people would buy from an almost unknown artist. But it's amazing to see the world giving my music a chance. And maybe one day, I will be a punk rocker with flowers in my hair. But all I can do is wait. Live. And fix the broken. Piece by piece.