Most musical avenues are relatively straightforward to delve into: the triumphs and histories are easily sought at the behest of any search engine. Albums like ‘Nevermind’, ‘Doolittle’ and ‘Revolver’ are a staple for the intrepid explorer who punches the word ‘rock’ into Google. Rock and Pop music can be broken down into distinct categories and styles – which is to say that, whilst the classical genre too has touchstones, nothing is supremely ordered like the denizens of modern music. You have a band; their selection of super songs which soared the hit parade; the albums that they appear on; and definitive labels with which to apply all the contexts you please.

The world, especially the digital one, appears to have a different set of standards for classical music. You can’t find a straight or simple answer anywhere. True, the musical exploits of Mozart, Bach and Beethoven were cataloged in an era far removed from our rigid ‘LP, EP, SINGLE, GREATEST HITS’. Their method of recording was completely without structure; essentially, the only way to fully grasp the contextual intracacies of classical music is to become a fucking scholar in it. Every other form of music genre – be it jazz, funk, pop, electronica, ska or bepop – has structured and meaningful entry points into their vast histories.

To be flung into classical music is akin to being flung into a vast and collosal library where no book, text or paper is ordered. And then imagine that you’re blind. And braille doesn’t exist. And you have no legs.

I am being unfair, though, to an extent. A lot of the problems with classical self-education are unintentional: it is a genre from another time. My resentment and apathy are derived from frustration born of the usual ease one usually finds with musical exploration.

I just wish it were easier.

I am totally lost; struggling, treading water in a sea of unconstrained discontent, failing to ascertain in which direction land lies, not even sure that land is what is sought, wondering if, in fact, best to be swallowed by the ocean.

GodDAMN that’s a horrible allegory.  Just help me.  I’m lost, existentially speaking, but stuck trying to push aside the existential thoughts in order to forge a secure future in which I can securely explore the existential thoughts.

System Failure:…Default Settings Active:…Setting–Apathy/Sleep.

Kill me.

That was nearly a decade ago.  I am older and far less concerned with how trendy I am perceived to be [mainly because I don’t actually get out much and am therefore perceived by less people].

Today marks the fourth night of nocturnal strife in just five days.

After the first two days I tried to rationalise the oddity of awakening at 5am with just a few hours under my belt.  I am not a friend of the pollen, and this adversity can usually provide an ample obstacle to sleeping.  More often than not, hay-fever rids you of the ability to breathe nasally, something that you don’t often appreciate in the context of sleeping.  The upshot is that you are forced to breathe expansively with the mouth.  It’s not pretty, it’s not fun, and it doesn’t sound particularly enticing.

Add the following into the mix: a tragically unhealthy diet, a mild caffeine dependency, a chronic lack of exercise and some pretty dismal bedtimes.  On one hand you could argue that bad sleep is inevitable, but, on the other, it’s not troubled me prior to the last couple of months.

So, two nights in a row isn’t groundbreaking.  The next night was standard operation – not so shocking when you go to bed in the early hours of the morning [blame the Internet].

The following night was the clincher.  I had a drink or two.  I was sufficiently watered.

And I still woke up before 6am.  Three or four hours sleep?  On the back of a drinking evening?  Such an event is unheard of, surely

Last night I went to bed at 2.30am.  Sleeping on the comfortable conservatory couch with a soft throw for cover [I wasn’t about to inflict my arsenal of disturbing allergy-stricken noises on my significant other], I looked set for a regulation snooze.  The conservatory sounds like a less than ideal place to sleep, but you’d be surprised.  In the summer nights, the conservatory is the only place in the house that isn’t sweltering.  If anything else, it exhibits the perfect ambient room temperature for sleeping.

Imagine my shock when, through bleary eyes, I made the time to be just 5.30am, giving me a maximum of three hours sleep.  Despite my best attempts I could not get back to sleep.  FML.

On the plus side, I did get to see the summer solstice sunrise, but that’s scant consolation when your sleeping hours for the week equal that of a normal person’s night.

It is almost exactly twelve hours later: 5.28pm, and I’m no more tired than I would normally be.  Does this mean that I don’t need the sleep?  Or will it all creep up on me during the coming week?  Do insomniacs need more sleep to subsist adequately?

I have been active today and I have had no coffee since 9am.  If I don’t sleep tonight the alarm bells will be a-ringing.  No fun.

Downloading his S/T LP and working my way through chronologically seems the only real way to go.

Here goes nothing.

Now, I for one don’t remember demanding this team-up, but I’m sure as hell not complaining about it.

This four-shot comic – released in August later this year – will feature none other than Evil Dead hero-extrordanaire and bane-of-the-undead Ash Williams [who we all know was created for the sole purpose of exposing Bruce Campbell to celluoid] coming to the rescue of President Obama.

And let’s all just take a minute to appreciate how godamned COOL the damsel in distress looks.  Have you ever seen anyone so nonplussed and unimpressed by the presence of the undead?  I suspect Barack will provide a perfect and placid partner to Ash’s frenetic and emotive face [read: chin].

On further thought, is Obama going to even need Ash?  I mean, the guy’s a ninja [who's lately been letting his "normal-human-being" persona slip, as this video demonstrates].

The series will be released on the Dynamite Entertainment imprint – the same guys who gave us The Boys.

Don’t ask me for statistics or clarification: that’s just the way it appears to be.  Every now and again you’ll come across a Curriculum Vitae or a professional resume or a business card that has a Hotmail address, and, perhaps, you’ll let out a sigh or a cringe.  True, I haven’t always done this [and I am the owner of two accounts there], but once it was brought to my attention by a certain someone, it has become something of a truism.

And now it would appear that I am sensationally fickle, for today I am creating my inaugural gmail account.

In my defence, I have grown a touch tired of my Hotmail account.  It’s a pain the arse to access from mobile web and the frequent and complex renovations to the site are becoming tiresome, as is the ongoing soap-opera of a takeover from Windows and Microsoft.  And, besides, it’s not very cool [says the man with a gigabyte of the animated Batman series on his laptop.

So, so fickle…

Anyway.  I now have a gmail account and as a result I now have to begin the irksome process of letting everything on the internet – people included – know of this fact.

Now you know….jm.hillyer@googlemail.com

So, is delving into the Metallica back-catalogue a worthwhile experience?  Or will it just end up being a tiresome and futile attempt to broaden my sonic horizon?  I don’t know.  Either way, there are two Metallica LPs sitting on my desktop just waiting to be listened to.

I’ll probably just delete them and continue on in my Metallica-less existence.

This wordpress serves real no purpose.  It won’t be full of incredibly incisive insights. And, no, I don’t expect this to be read that much [making the writing of this post somewhat disorientating].

Enough of what it isn’t.  What it is is essentially a personal outlet.

I fully expect the readership to be just myself – perhaps with the exception of a few friends and internet-roamers who inadvertently stumble across my lovely little corner of the internet.

Who I am is not important at the moment – I’ll probably let little details escape from time to time. Y’know, whatever floats across my mind.