Sounds of a generation? Just music to make the ears bleed Jessica Mauboy. It happened again, this time in the car, and it came on really suddenly. I was driving my son somewhere and he flicked the car radio onto Triple J, then I instantly started getting hemifacial twitches, my mouth grimaced involuntarily, and out burst a stream of vocalised blathering: "That just sounds like bad John Lennon ... wouldn't even be a B-side CSNY ... your generation doesn't even have its own sound, just insipid crud-pop trying to live up to the glorious musical achievements of the '60s and '70s and a bit into the '80s ... but just a bit." It was horrible, uncontrollable, and my boy just sat there silently, pondering whether to open his car door and roll out of the car at 70km/h, but changing his mind, because it might damage his phone. Lorde in concert at the Corner Hotel, Richmond. Photo: Aleksandar Jason As a middle-aged man suffering from Acute Smug Pop-Music Arrogant-Wanker Disorder (ASPMAWD or Glenn A. Baker Tourette's), I've brought much distress to my nearest and dearest, and anyone standing near me in cafes, trendy shops, and the new-release CD rack at JB Hi-Fi. My attacks are getting more and more frequent, and they can be very confronting. It happened again at a friend's birthday party, someone mentioned The X Factor and it triggered a self-harming motor-spasm, smacking myself in the forehead with my hand, as I started hollering obscenities: "That pack of $#$@ no-talent nobodies ... they'll never crack it %$%# anywhere ... and that's just the $#$@ judges, haw haw haw!" And my wife just sat beside me, wondering if a cake knife could cut cleanly through gristly middle-aged neck fat, then realising she'd probably need one of those heavy cleavers like Luke Nguyen used on the pork belly in the Cambodian leg of his Greater Mekong series. Last weekend was the worst attack yet, an almost life-threatening neuropsychiatric paroxysm. On Saturday, I was sitting alone watching Rage on TV, and it induced a series of repetitive phonetic pffff-tics: "Pffff, wannabe Kate Bush ... pffff, Earth, Wind and Fire did that 35years ago ... pfffff, meaningless mass-marketed mediocrity, pffff, pffffff, PFFFFFFFFF." Convulsing, couldn't breathe, I thought, oh crap, oh crap, I'm going to die here alone ... in front of Katy Perry and Redfoo. But I was saved by an angel: a shimmering, smiley, soulful Sapphire by the name of Jessica Mauboy. Her new music clip came on and I instantly relaxed, breathed deep, because I like Jessica Mauboy, she's got class, she sings R&B, she would never sell out with over-sexualised crud-pop, NEVER. Then she opened her shimmering smiley soulful Sapphire mouth and out came the words "Pop a bottle of your love, take another shot" followed by the evocative lyrics "I never get enough, fill me up, fill me up!" and finishing with the emotionally reflective "Up up oowah oowah, C'MON AND FILL ME UP, FILL MEEEEEE UPPPPP." Two minutes into the song, my wife and kids found me on the couch in a state of catatonia, frothing, babbling "THEY GOT MAUBOY TOO ... those evil record companies ... they destroy all innocent pure talent ... just like they did to Ricki-Lee ... and Britney ... and Miley ... My daughter medicated me with a calming iTunes-playlist of Tina Turner and James Taylor. My son gave me an emergency iPod epi-jab of Bon Iver and a mega-talented young Kiwi singer named Lorde, THANK THE LORD FOR LORDE. And my wife went on the computer and upped her eBay bid for a self-sharpening kitchen cleaver with good ergonomics and a secure grip.