Every few millennia a truly singular artist appears, amidst the monotony of Hollywood night clubs and Billboard Top 40 hits and four chord diatonic progressions, with a fresh perspective, an unparalleled musical gift, and the capacity to inspire an entire generation. Such an artist stands among us today, one whose imagery captures the very essence of beauty, whose melody soars and dives and sweeps us along on a tidal wave of hopes and dreams. He eschews the mainstream and capitalism (and money in general); he will neither sell out, nor buy into the prevailing culture of greed and exploitation. Indeed, he has come to restore our values, to reclaim our ideals, to bring all that is lovely, and virtuous, and sexy… back. He is Justin Randall Timberlake (zOMG!!!).
In the shadow of such greatness dwells Tommy Curry, aspiring singer/songwriter. A disciple of indie music, Curry has recently joined the huddled masses of struggling artists in Los Angeles, thriving with youth and vigor. Curry is a transplant from the other coast (the one with water vapor and winter) and fills his songs with rustic allusions, like Ford pick-up trucks, chicken-fried chicken, and cow-tipping. Beyond his musical acuity, Curry is an avid ornithologist and has a passion for parenthetical expressions (can’t you tell?). He strives to uphold the values of the working-class artist he so ardently adores, yet he is quickly learning that the grind exacts a toll, and some amount of compromise, however distasteful, may be necessary. Curry admits to being less concerned with “selling out” than with selling something, ANYTHING!, soon, so that he can buy groceries. “I would never rewrite lyrics or alter the message of a song to satisfy the whims of some gluttonous, profit-hungry record label or production studio,” says Curry, “for less than a couple hundred dollars.” Blissfully ignorant of the obstacles that stand between him and success of historic proportions, Curry maintains a positive outlook. “Obama is president—all is well.”