aPOPalypse NOW

Rufus Banks had prided himself on travelling the globe in search of the finest musicians in the obscurest locations from Luangwa in Zambia to Bhangarh, Rajasthan in India and bringing them back to his studio in Bergen, Norway where he now lived. Having previously been hailed as one of Britain's most conscientious and socially progressive thought leaders, it had never occured to Banks that he would be accused of cultural appropriation in what should have currently been the prestige years of his already considerable career.

It all started with a provocative editorial on the pop titan in the online music magazine 'KRITICAL' that went instantly viral and prompted an intense debate on various social media platforms about the validity of Rufus Banks's latest content "Broken World Order" and his extensive back catalogue of work.

"Pop's very own Indiana Jones, or is he more Colonel Kurtz, needs to recognise and own his fetish for collecting musicians from diverse cultures like rare artefacts to include in his hybrid alternative pop/world music genre albums. These simply aren't the innocent collaborations he likes to believe they are. We don't live in some Don Draper-like dreamt up idea of cultural unity like the famous 1970's 'Hilltop' ad where everyone buys each other a coke. Here at 'KRITICAL' we believe Banks to be a modern day white coloniser, one who profits from his collaboration with POC for his own sense of false virtue. These authentic world artists don't need to be blended in some digestible fashion by some over the hill relic of Britain's increasingly irrelevant pop culture in order to be given their flowers. Banks should be honest and hold his hand up to his serial appropriating as his recorded legacy will only be held under increasing scrutiny if he doesn't."

"Fuck, Tim! What am I going to do now?"

"Ignore it. It'll go away in a week. You know we live in an attention deficit world. News cycles last about as long as a Tik Tok video these days. "

"What? A fucking minute?"

"Alright, let's say 24 hours to be safe."

Rufus wasn't convinced by his manager's casual take on the situation. Scrolling through the final paragraph of the article shaking his head, he had to read it out loud and slowly to make the point to Tim just how serious shit was right now.

"Fuck's sake. How am I a coloniser? Everyone gets paid for their contribution to the records. I'm hardly keeping anyone under duress. They're making it sound like I had them chained up in the booths."

"Rufus. Listen to me. Turn your phone off for a day and check back in with me tomorrow. Go have a smoke and a wank. I bet you anything this will have all blown over and the mob will be looking for some other poor bastard to persecute. Besides, what do you care? You're all the way out there in Norway."

"Jesus, Tim. How many times have I been telling you we live in a global village now. Don't you get it yet?"

Angrily snapping the ring pull back off a can of beer, Rufus took a swig, forgetting he already had an unlit cigarette held between his lips. Nearly choking, he managed to quickly pull the tube out of the back of his mouth all the while making wretching sounds as his gag reflex had been triggered.

"Rufus? You there? Talk to me!"

Still coughing, Rufus just about managed to get some words out.

"Jesus! I could have fucking died."

"What happened?"

"Never mind. I'll call you tomorrow. I fucking hope you're right about this and this thing doesn't snowball."

Turning his phone off and hiding it in his abundant fruit bowl, Rufus went off to walk down to the sea and clear his head.

It had been quite the morning, to say the least.

Watching the waves crash against the white, sandy shore, Rufus remained incredulous as to how he could suddenly become public enemy number one in the eyes of the woke critics he had tried so hard to court and impress over the years. He had fought publicly for every zeitgeist social justice cause and thrown money at every environmental and human disaster he could think of around the world, including producing and singing on several charity singles.

"Serves me right for trying to be a simp to the cunts I guess," he said under his breath, dismayed by his own cowardice. "Peter Gabriel never had to deal with this bullshit. There's still time, though. They could absolutely Roald Dahl him. Womad would be fucked."

Rufus skimmed a stone as far as he could, watching it bounce a disappointing three times before sinking beneath the surface. He couldn't help but see it as an apt metaphor for his career right now. As much as he had planned not to look at his phone as his manager had suggested, he could feel it calling to him with its siren song from the fruit bowl back home. Feeling restless and impatient at the volatile situation he was now drowning in, he quickly returned home to his beachside house to check his messages and the damage.

Just as he feared, his phone had blown up with endless messages and notifications pinging endlessly away on his screen.

"Jesus! Fuck you, Tim!"

Seeing his name trending number one on Twitter confirmed his worst suspicions as did number two and three trending subjects #SlaveMaster and #SlaveMusic.

"Here we go."

Literally shaking, Rufus went in search of some drugs to chill him out. He couldn't handle this shit straight. He was already palpitating and having issues with his vision. Falling into his giant hammock in his back garden, he lit a giant spliff and started sucking on a bottle of vodka like a hungry baby and then zoned out watching the clouds above whilst listening to a podcast on gardening.

"I had a good run back there."

Then he check his phone again, seeing he had a text message from his old mate, Johnny Fluff, who he'd had a major falling out with over Brexit.

"Don't let the bastards grind you down, lad!"

At which point Rufus flung his phone across the garden in a fit of despair.

"Fuck off Johnny. Fluff you!"

Johnny had been cancelled himself a few years back for making an incendiary speech in support of women's rights at a Pride event. Rufus hadn't bothered to defend him at the time but seeing as Fluff had texted him now in his own darkest hour brought to the fore once again his terrible cowardice.

"Fucking prick has pricked my conscience!"

Thinking that was a good line, the rock star went and retrieved his phone once again to write it down in his Notes app.

Then, engaged in creative thought for a moment, Rufus took to his studio.

Thrashing away in a semi desperate way, from primal screams to tuneful howling, Rufus was seized with the idea of composing his defence against the mob in musical form.

A frenzied afternoon of inspired and manic music making resulted in the purest piece of agit-pop he'd ever created. He could feel himself channeling the combined spirit of The Ramones, The Clash and Happy Mondays, all the influences he'd ironed out of his music over time.

"You all went and pricked my conscience, which put me in a funk. We're all guilty of false virtue. What makes you think you're any diff-er-ent. Fuck the world. Fuck the fucking world. I don't need you anymore. I got my music .That's my shield."

Excited by this ad hoc guerilla-style track with its messy, distorted guitar chords and punchy, low end beats, he listened to it a few times through a heavy cloud of dope smoke and over another spasmodic fit of coughing from where his throat was still irritated by his cigarette swallowing incident earlier.

Finally satisfied with the final results, he then took to his social media and uploaded the track across multiple accounts adding simply the pithy title as a clue to what it was.

"Self Defence"

Strangely turned on by his musical bravado the artist found himself getting a semi and went off for to pleasure himself in the shower to the sound of his latest song on repeat.

He hadn't given it a day to cool off as his manager had advised. More like half. Tim would probably have an aneurysm once he heard the track but Rufus didn't care.

Now though was definitely the time to turn his phone off for 24 hours he thought to himself as he climbed into his Omega Morphosis luxury shower.

And as several massage jets blasted all the stress from his tense body with hot gushing water, Rufus roared triumphantly,"Now that's fucking Rock N' Roll!"