On everyone who is knowledgeable about music intimidates me:

My dad listened to a lot of Eagles. Not the Don Henley Eagles songs, no, he’d skip ahead to the Glenn Frey songs. I’m not saying that’s necessarily what stunted my musical development, but I’m pretty sure Justin Timberlake only had to bring sexy back because Glenn Frey tried to bury it alive and piss on its grave.

Now being who I am, I can’t be entirely sure that reference makes sense, because I’m not entirely sure I know who Justin Timberlake is. I vaguely remember a curly haired little abortion in N’Sync, and that Lance Bass was gay, and then he wasn't gay, but then he was gay again. 

Holy shit for real? Did NOT see that coming.

Most of this knowledge comes from avoiding eye contact in the line at the grocery store. I know nothing about the music I like because I don’t trust myself to know what music I like. I know that sounds confusing, but it makes sense if you either have a tumor or suffer from being me.

Tumors! Now with proper introductory etiquette!

My musical ignorance causes me panic attacks in the groin and inner child areas of my being. I believe my father’s dedication to The Eagles is a big part of the poison that courses through my musically oblivious veins. 

Not this kind of poison... Actually, no, exactly this kind of poison. Check out Owen Wilson second from the left.

Deep inside me, in the early nineties, was the potential for me to become the guy who could name a really obscure band and ramble off something about their unknown zydeco vinyl album. In that fantasy, I inform everyone around me that it was released some time between the industrial revolution and the invention of the first vibrator. The girl I have a crush on drops acid and nods sagely, obviously impressed.

"Don't let my crazy acid eyes veil how impressed I am with your musical insight. I can hear my teeth...."

But the reality is I never talk about hip underground music when the girl I have a crush on drops acid. I don’t even talk about hip underground music when the current topic among my friends is hip underground music. When that happens, I’m in awe of guys I've known since I was eight years old. The friends I rummaged through the rubble of the demolished hospital near my house with, looking for bloody gauze that may or may not have been wrapped around an actual dead guy.

Good times.

Even with all that history and familiarity, when they talk about music they sound so cool. So honest and open minded and inquisitive with each other about their various tastes in Albanian sub-hard house techno blues rock culture. I just sit there while they run the risk of sounding so fucking cool that they implode and fuse together to form Lou Reeds giant flesh cudgel pounding Amy Winehouse back to life directly in my living room.

Seriously, Look at Reed, that could happen.

                     "Rise, by the power of Lou's love log."                                                                  

Aaaaaaaaand, she's back.

Anybody who seems knowledgeable about music suddenly intimidates me into intellectual submission. It’s like none of my views on postmodernism matters because you introduced your boss to Wreckless Eric. I've never concocted an opinion of merit on post modernism, but guess what, I won’t even try now, in case I start talking about it and someone mentions how Peaches has been working on a new track in Germany that loops the sound of a dying ferret over the theme song to Family Ties and it’s fucking brilliant.

                        

                                       +

=

Hooray! You've just won GERMANY!

It makes me uncomfortable about dating, too. For some reason since torrents, “what music do you download” has become a supremely important question for a woman when selecting a mate to cream her discerning Ayn Rand power orchid. I’m not exactly a specimen in any other arena when choosing who to procreate with, but at least I once came close to constructing a very well researched opinion on postmodernism.

Post-YoMama-nism

Regardless, my conversation during a coffee date will inevitably degenerate into this basic concession:

“No, music is far more important than the rejection of global cultural narrative, Kirsten, you’re right! Let’s just agree that I could never impregnate you with anything more than a fetal version of the elephant man as I know nothing about Crushed Butler’s discography. “

 Shut up, Kirsten.

You know the worst part is, I get it, music is more important than contemporary society rejecting objective truth. It’s more impressive and sexier and God damn it’s more relevant to our daily lives.

So why does taste in music seem like such an elusive social Rubik's cube to me? I understand it’s subjective to the listener’s interpretation. If that’s the case how come pop seems to effortlessly snap open my auditory bra and get me to second base like a wanton rhythm slut while what others subjectively consider “proper honest genre defining” music sounds objectively bad to me. I want to like the Pixies, but I really only like “Wave of Mutilation” and that’s only because it was in Pump up the Volume and I saw Samantha Mathis’ boobies in that movie.

You can pump up MY volume any day, and by volume I mean your penis... That doesn't sound right... I meant YOUR penis. No, wait... Whatever something something please do sex on me.

How is that wrong? How are Samantha Mathis’ boobies responsible for this? They aren't  Maybe dad didn't pass on some kind of hereditary bad taste in music either. Nor did Glenn Frey stunt my- No, fuck that Glenn Frey definitely messed something up. But maybe it’s not the record companies or Suge Knight or Christian Slater acting as an implausible pirate radio DJ, that has anything to do with my self loathing ignorance when it comes to music.

"Don't blame the Knight, baby, it ain't no thang... Now come get some Sugar."

Maybe everyone likes the music they feel they aren't allowed to like because it’s too easy to like. No one gloats about making it down the kiddy hill at the ski lodge. That’s a good analogy because this is obviously 1986.

YEEEAAAHHH!!!

Let me try that again. Maybe it’s because the “proper honest genre defining” music is hard to listen to and hard to find so that makes it better. Like a battle scar and a good story is better than Christina Aguilera reminding you that “you are beautiful” as greasy brown thigh liquid rolls down her legs, regardless of how catchy it is.

YEEEAAAAAAHHH!!!

So somehow that makes Rhythm Nation and Good Vibrations inferior to The Decline and anything by Nick Cave. I can live with that, but album sales and song charts would classify that statement as inaccurate at best. Good Vibrations sold 230,000 copies in the first four days of it’s release, Rhythm Nation, 14,000,000 worldwide. The only real glaring difference I can see in all honesty that favors Janet and Wahlberg is you can actually fuck to their albums.

Then again, I've never tried to plow the fertile fields to John Lyndon’s “Psycho’s Path”, so who knows? That album might give me an erection so hard and glorious that Gaza peace talks resume and Jesus personally re-seeds Prince William’s hair. I find that highly unlikely on all counts, but then again Susan Boyle released an album on the cover of which she actually doesn't look like hobbit rolled around in dog shit, so I guess anything’s possible. 

"You came to the wrong Shire, mother fucker."