Dear Mr. Rose,
I’m sorry. It’s a really hard decision to make, and much harder to put it out there. It’s been occupying my mind for some time now, and don’t think it was easy for me. I am really impressed by you, your songs and your bizarre life story. Ever since I saw you at the concert, I’ve been hearing your furious-crazy wail and seeing your impossibly bright blue eyes non-stop in my head. You and your songs- they are about my sister, my brother, my family, my past and my present as well. I’m listening to “Chinese Democracy” right now, and enjoying every single second of it.
And please don’t think your unsavoury reputation as an unpunctual, foul-mouthed and violent wife-beater has influenced my choice. Your alleged tardiness at concerts- well you disproved that to me, when you burst onto the stage so early that we weren’t even sure it was you. Your foul mouth- well, it’s not much worse than what I come across regularly on cyberspace and in the academia, and they even don’t have the excuse of your talent. Your violence- who am I to judge? So no. It’s not about you. It’s just about the songs, the music.
It’s the rush of delight, you see. When I heard Dire Straits calling out “Money for nothing” this morning, with Sting’s eerie fairy voice in the background, I knew they had won by the sheer surge of pleasure I felt.
People change of course, and nothing is set in stone forever. But right now, it is with some surprise that I realise that my favourite song continues to be Dire Straits and Sting’s Money for Nothing. Maybe if you put out a new album, in the next 17 years or so, Mr. Rose, you might turn up with something to beat them. But for now, sorry seems to be the hardest word.