Amateur Hour

Hearing a large portion of the Sparks catalogue in succession after a long hiatus, I'm tempted to make grand statements about the impossible brilliance of the songs. Specifically, what caught my mind this time was that the lyrics are surely some of the finest ever recorded, not only featuring one of the most mordant senses of humour in popular song, but being the embodiment of a lifetime's worth of frustration and bitterness. The thought that life can always be more unfair than you perceive it -- how nonchalantly it is all put to a glorious melody and beat.

The moral thrust of this 2000 documentary, ostensbily on vinyl collectors hit somewhere close to home. The filmmaker's depressed excesses aside, it is at least partly concerned with a valid question I've grappled with as I fill the bricks in my nascent collection: aren't there better things I could be doing? (Only) Partially on the heels of such thinking, a few years ago I went so far as to give up on music for a little bit. While I've since more than redoubled my efforts in terms of collecting, the question still gnaws at me from time to time: where is all of this going, exactly?

I'm not sure I have anything new to offer as an answer, but I think the older answers seem as sensible as they ever did. First, collecting for its own sake -- making the focus something other than the music -- is the road to madness. I don't think my condition will reach the heights of some of the documentary's subjects, specifically in terms of buying albums I have no intention of listening to. I can't say that my buy-to-listen ratio is great, but I definitely do intend to get around to all the albums sometime or another. Some of them I've kept shelved for years, waiting for the right time to either revisit or listen for the first time. (This includes many classic rock releases that I should have memorized: Moby Grape, The Band,  et cetera. Matter of fact I feel shameful admitting that they've stayed relatively unlistened for so long.) It's been a perennial problem of mine, figuring out how exactly to fit in more music as time and mental bandwidth will allow. Yet I'm inclined to give myself a pass on this, since I have been trying to chip away at some of these semi-permanent fixtures in recent times.

Second, eccentricity is softened when it is shared. Part of my personal insecurity with my collection is the element of fantasy that's involved sometimes when stepping back and looking back at it -- the thought that if a fellow music aficionado should come across it, I should get a nod of approval. It's a pity that I've only had few such friendships, all with people from a very different musical upbringing. (The first of which may have sowed the seeds for a completely different musical obsession some years down the line, when I'm all cleaned up. But one problem at a time.) Being an esoteric discipline, of course, it's not easy to find other obsessives. But it would definitely validate the sense that all of this is not imagined happiness, that others think the music worth seeking out. And as I write this, it reminds me of the value of keeping such friendships active when they are formed.

These are not to suggest that I'm immune to the thrills of collection, though. Indeed, the seeds were sown when reading GS's site, I think, and seeing its encyclopaedic approach to rock music. Some part of me acquiescently responded to that, and took that knowledge as being something to aspire to. It's why I've never shook quite off the dream of writing music reviews, despite limited success in having anything to say at all when it comes to describing albums I really like. (The template for the music review site is in place, though, ready for a rainy day.) It's why a job application form that asked for my extra-curricular interests saw me filling in "budding record collector", even though this was back in the day when all I had was Grateful Dead and Neil Young albums. Neither of which I'm all that embarrassed by, because I would note that the reviewing obsession is quite different to the collecting obsession. Indeed, ten years on, and my respect for GS isn't diminished all that much, not least because he doesn't fall prey to the trap I mentioned earlier, namely, hoarding but not consuming. (Whether or not rating all the Kiss albums is a good use of time, though, is another story.) Maybe more importantly, when it counts, what you get from the reviews is a genuine sense of love and devotion to the music -- its emotional rather than symbolic impact. That is something that is questionable when the collection obsession becomes more extreme.

The above also doesn't address another question the documentary tries to probe at, namely, why go through this puzzling ritual? The easy answer is that obsessive is just the way I am. (Pity it's not in the things that matter, my unkind half feels forced to interject.) More instructive is the admission that there is definitely an element of compensation in the act -- loving music is so unconditional, so guaranteed, so clean. None of which is bad. Only that it's likely symptomatic of an psychological inability to feel entirely at ease in the real world and those who occupy it. Then again, I'm tempted to say, so what? I've known that for a long time. Could it just be something I have to live with? And if so, why not derive as much happiness as possible while I can; and if music is the doorway to that, so be it? The counter-argument is likely that this view deliberately ignores the reality that this is not how humans are wired, specifically, that it means an existence in slavish devotion to plastic (or to vibrations in the air) rather than flesh and blood, which will ultimately be an unsatisfying one. And yet, again, this is under the assumption that collection (or reviewing, or whatever) is the only thing going on in one's life. Which is likely a crucial point -- should one choose to spend one's free time collecting Dylan bootlegs (thankfully I took a pass on that life), that's one's own pejorative. But when the notion of what is free time encroaches upon the elements of a halfway "normal" life, perhaps that's cause for, if not concern, at least acknowledgement that there's a conscious choice going on here. If one looks straight in the mirror and decides that it's the right choice, what else is there to the say? In my case, I can't count the times I've hummed a tune to myself and decided that the Doors were right when they spoke of the unreserved friendship that only music can provide. But I can't claim them to be the only times that meant anything to me. Which, I think, means that while I'm not too dissatisfied with the choice I've made, I'm not above thinking that some obsessions can be displaced without shaking my sense of self too much.

Over the hills

Lingering memories of particularly weak late '70s/early '80s 'Dead efforts kept me from engaging with Robert Hunter's catalogue, beyond just owning one of his CDs as an acknowledgement of his influence over my formative music experiences. It turns out that listening to said CD wasn't such a bad idea after all. Even after so many years, I can remember the mystery and power of his lyrics, how they became enmeshed with my reality. Sitting on my bed as school came to a final close, following the words of Terrapin Station, counting stars by the candlelight, and having a sense that this life had some magic in it: it was an early sign to me that there was something important in whatever this style of music was. It's reassuring to know there's enough left of the old self to find something evocative in the music even today. I would like such profoundly altering experiences to happen again, and I'm sure they will. Just maybe not to me. No matter: I'll take a memory.

I've commented at least a couple of times previously that despite owning so many of his albums, I still feel like I haven't the faintest idea what makes Lou Reed tick. I suspect this is a sentiment that will only strengthen with time. (This isn't apropos Lulu specifically, but it is a good example.) I find myself unable to answer the most basic questions about what his music is about, and sometimes unable to assess if at the end of it all, the guy is good or not. It's true that he's come up with some unusual -- sometimes jarring, sometimes humorous -- rhymes and lines, which it's convenient to attribute to his being natural. But that's a potentially oversimplifying judgement, one that could apply to near anyone. What is it that makes the music interesting? What occurs to me is that you get the sense that you are learning something about him when you listen to his albums. And it isn't just that he pours out the complex emotions that broil inside; in the course of an average song, it's as if he's just chatting with you about what's currently on his mind. This simple fact opens many possible points of empathetic connection. Even when the songs are throwaways, they come across as heartfelt by virtue of there being no (indication of) pretense in the writing. And when they're about weighty concepts, the blunt, almost clumsy way he writes about them makes it seem impossible that it's any form of posturing. In sum: he means what he says, and he has things to say. Which is a rarity in any form of art.

At least a couple of dreams came true the past few months, what with there being John Prine and Paul Simon concerts in this fair city. I don't want to read too much into the fact that I didn't greet them with the delirium I used to invoke when I imagined these days in my bedroom. Part of it is the even-temperedness of growing up, and probably much less is due to my general emotional hesitance. Anyhow, each concert reminded me what great songwriters the two men are, and in particular each had a moment where I was reminded how their genius captured me when I first listened to their songs. It further added to the belief that there is something special in this medium when it is done right; and that these masters share this intuitive understanding of it, but are also blessed with the ability to draw from this mysterious force. It is a little sad that I personally have not found many people capable of carrying the torch into the next generation. But I'm grateful for what I have, so I'll keep humming that lonesome tune.

A great song somehow finds a way to transcend the apparently insurmountable limitations of its form, and reveals a secret world that you suspect only you and the composer share. Meaning is never what it appears to be on the surface, and whether it's the instrumentation, vocal delivery, or intangible feel of the music, it can take one to a strange space that we never otherwise see in our waking moments. Sometimes, when reminded of a particularly favourite lyric, and unable to express the feelings it induces, I feel as though I've been bequeathed something very special. How odd that someone's thoughts and words, expressed in a few minutes' worth of music, should trigger a reaction in someone born a generation later, someone living in an altogether different world. I wonder if I am meant to do something with these keepsakes, put them to some use beyond the pleasure they give me. My humblest response and offering is an attempt to facsimile my internal processes when the music hits me; in hopes partly of reaching to other wanderers who may have stumbled onto the shared secret, but mostly to pay some respect to the spirits that created them, so that some part of them may live forever.

After a break from music, it takes only the briefest of re-initiation ceremonies to bring all the voices flooding back. On the right kind of day, it isn't too much of a hyperbole to say that various combinations of lyric & music* consume most of my waking thoughts. (I can only speculate about dream time, of course.) This has been true ever since I started listening to music seriously. All that has changed over the years is the nature of the songs in my head, on account of my taste slowly improving :-) This state of mind has historically fostered marathon listening & obsessing sessions, and when it's really too much to handle even some form of writing. I don't think I'll ever decipher the mysterious power of song, which bodes well if it continues to elicit such reactions from me.

So complete is this mental take-over that I dwell on old dreams of being involved with this form somehow. But blessed with neither the talent nor emotional resilience** that it requires, I end up in pretty much the same place I've always been. I can, and should, set my sights on much more modest goals, though. Getting around to playing an instrument would be a positive step no matter the final outcome; I can only imagine the pleasure of one's own guitar strum providing the backdrop to a rendition of a John Prine song, say. I'd also like to better focus my writings on music (meta posts like this are exempted from any criticism ;-)). I realize why it's difficult to make much headway on these things, though: it's far easier to listen to music than make something from one's reaction to it! In light of this, I would say that at the very least, a basic hope is to become a "better" listener, which you may interpret however you like. But I don't use the word "obsession" lightly in this context. This music is pretty powerful stuff when it gets into my head. So I have a strong sense that even being the best listener in the world won't be enough for me.

* I put lyric before music on purpose, because that appears to be the ingredient I have the most affinity towards; while classical melodies sometimes run through my head, it's never with the same intensity as any of the songs that make it to this blog's recurring lists.

** I really don't know how one of my favourite songwriters (guess who?) managed to reconcile his hypersensitivity with the harshness of performing music in public. In an interview, he mentioned something similar to what I wrote above, namely that his obsession with music, combined with his realization that he could do something that no one else was doing, got to the point of being "ridiculous". As he put it, it ended up almost as if there was no other way but for him to get up on stage and start performing.

I don't think my taste in music, literature, and the arts in general is especially idiosyncratic or eclectic, but for a long enough stretch of time I've had the feeling that maybe I'm the only person in the world who experiences the things I do. (The careful reader will remember me making that statement about Lou Reed's Set the Twilight Reeling.) To a small extent that can be explained by my consumption habits, focussed more on depth than breadth, which does not seem to be the spirit of the times. To a larger extent, I'm sure that says something about the circles I've found myself in, due to a very limited notion of comfort zone. But where once I used to think that it didn't matter if these albums & books were mine, all mine, I now feel, well, like sharing. What exactly that means and in what capacity, I don't know. Let's just say though that it means anything different to what I currently practice, namely the piling on of album after album, each more esoteric than the last. (I exaggerate greatly, but it does feel that way sometimes.)

Part of my insularity is perhaps a result of elitism. By having secret treasures that few others know about, one feels privy to the true works of greatness, with the rest of the world not having the discriminating taste to have discovered the thing on their own. (We can forget the fact that one doesn't discover things through divine visions, and that ultimately someone, be it a person or a magazine, has to introduce you to a book or album.) Of course, I don't consciously put thought and effort into acting this way, but I have felt on occasion that this is a more realistic explanation than mere apathy. Another force that is potentially also in the mix is the fear that my smugness of taste will be in for a shock when I open up: if the treasures are greeted with indifference, then all this secrecy has been for nought* :-)

Lest you accuse me of selling out, I'm not at all saying that the only things worth experiencing are what the mass likes. I maintain very strongly that the things I like are really quite good (that's axiomatic? ;-)). But there is only so much one mind can offer you. (This might seem rather puzzling to anyone who's kept abreast of developments in the social web - this is precisely the thing that has attracted so much attention to it - but again, the careful reader will remember my countless concerns with the culture the social web has fostered.) And as I mentioned many years ago, there is something surreal about listening to music with the headphones off and someone else in the room. I once had the oddest sensation where I almost couldn't believe that the songs could exist outside my head, that other people could experience them. That's probably because of the deep personal meaning one tends to attach to them, and bless that - but surely that can happily coexist with the occasional shared listen.

So what exactly am I proposing? Nothing really. This is just a statement expressing desire on the way I'd like things to be. As a small step, I think I'd like to take opportunities to evangelize things that once I'd keep all to myself. Stay tuned for future posts lamenting how my recommendations are drowned out by the social web ;-)

* This is related to a (potentially) deep issue, as expressed in a question I was once asked point blank: when there is no interaction with others about the arts, how do you know your quality-sensor is accurate? Or as I was asked, "How do you know you're not fooling yourself?". A complex question, and one that a different post would have to address. But it does touch upon why my current state is fraught with uncertainty at times.

Build me a woman

"Eyes alight with glowing hair / All that fancy paints as fair"

There is a certain type of woman that a certain school of songwriters have spent their lives writing verse & melody about, hoping that somewhere they will hit the right intersection of line & note, and bring a smile to her lips. When writing about any fair maiden, there is a strong temptation to imagine her as being a manifestation of this She, our own personal gateway into a world hinted and suggested through a lifetime of song. In doing so, I wonder if we end up projecting an impossible burden on the unsuspecting girl in question, convincing ourselves that they really are a living version of this immaculate entity. I suspect that while the answer is yes, the temptation is too strong and we do it anyway. Through scattered instances of a girl showing off a wistful smile, or even having that special something in her step, one gets glimpses at facets of this carefully constructed She. One need only consult one's CD rack to find out what happens after that.

A perceptive take on popular song I recently read is that it serves as a filter on life. A broad statement that can be applied to any art form, but there are at least two reasons it's a valuable way to think of popular song. First, the music lends itself so easily to subjective interpretation, because it is explicitly designed to be a visceral experience; once one responds instinctively, there's no chance that the reaction of any two people will be the same. Second, as a consequence of the first, this filter is much stronger than with the other arts. I wrote earlier about poetry serving as a magic incantation of sorts, a series of powerful invocations that help one in times of duress. One can say much the same thing with popular song, except that it doesn't just come to one's aid: it actively changes one's perceptions of everyday life*. Indeed, it's not clear that there's any deeper meaning to a lot of songs or albums that I like. A lot of times there are just phrases, snippets that speak to me, and the feelings they induce are quite likely not what the artist had in mind when recording it. Again, not particularly surprising - true of poetry, for example - but popular song in general doesn't have the level of intrinsic complexity of poetry, so one is left wondering why exactly it is so pleasing. A lot of times it's the feel of the music, the expression of a feeling that you can't get anywhere else; not through books, film, nor instrumental music. I don't know if it's all about Soul, but certainly the mode of expression is essential to understanding the music.

* Of course, I don't mean to suggest that it must act as a filter on your life, whether you like it or not, but I like the sound of the idea, and I feel like it's accurate in describing my own experiences.

I'm usually happy to chug along listening to whatever album catches my attention. Sometimes though, when the album isn't particularly spectacular, I take pause and wonder if anyone on earth has put as much effort as me into the music in question. There's the worry of time being wasted, for one; I start wondering if there are other things to do besides yielding three-fourths of an hour to something I don't feel a strong affinity towards. Of course, one can't know beforehand if something is going to be above average, because no matter how much background reading you do, there's no accounting for emotional reaction. It leaves me mildly suspicious of people who claim to be consistently discovering great albums: is it just that they have different standards? Or is there some trick to sussing out mediocrity that I've yet to discover?

My suspicion is that the "fault" lies with my ol' principle of listening to albums straight through, even when there are empirical signs suggesting it isn't a wise course. I can imagine that it's significantly simpler to get the feeling for mediocrity through a random sampling - while you still "waste" time listening to the tracks, at least you spread your bets out. The downside is that you leave to chance the possibility that there's some great (or even just good) that you miss out on. Then again, it leaves more time to focus on things that reward close attention. That seems like as laudable an end as any, but there is also a joy in really understanding an artist through their albums. There are quite a few albums that I recall fondly because they teach me something about the person behind them. When I perceive that they have similar traits to me, that creates a stronger emotional connection to the music. Is this empathetic connection "better" than that created purely through the music? Of course not, but it's not apparent to me that the converse is true either.

Sigh, so that means there's no definitive answer, as I suspected: it's all a question of choosing the trade-off one is comfortable with. Another spin of Set the Twilight Reeling, then? (I feel bad calling it mediocre, but I can definitely say it's disappointing. And I've got statistics, I've got facts to prove that basically no one has heard the darn thing.)

I don't know if popular song is explicitly designed to attach itself to moments in time, but it certainly seems to do this quite a lot with me. Perhaps it is due to its directness, or what purists alternately call its general lack of subtlety (fairly?). Devoted readers will find the following line of thinking familiar: while I firmly believe it has several artistic merits, I won't deny that popular song generally does not reach the level of structural complexity needed to withstand the level of scrutiny that other forms of high-art receive; but my personal inclination is to ignore this. By which I mean that I find the disconnect between the theoretical and the practical sufficiently large for me to focus on the latter. In doing so I don't mean to dismiss the potential limits in the form as being irrelevant, but rather to assert that the medium has given some tangible strength and force to my life. And that is why I continue to give it attention.

Indeed, I have been thinking lately that popular song often serves primarily as a canvas on which I project myself. Consequently, the pleasure might be not so much from something inherent in the music, but rather from the contours of my own mind, places only awakened through this very "primal" music. Recent listens to old Dylan favourites corroborate this line of thinking, and also brings up the classic lyrics-as-poetry issue. I'll be the first to admit that sometimes Dylan's lines are a bit impenetrable, and not as infused with a sense of purpose as one would expect from a Poet. But I feel this analysis is from a reading of the lines, rather than a listening of them. Who knows why it makes such a big difference, and if Dylan was conscious of this? But, for me anyway, there is a big difference, and I still find myself experiencing the same breathlessness at a good Dylan song as I do when recalling a particularly beautiful couplet. The pleasure comes from the way his lines dance inside my mind, and the images they conjure. Discerning what makes the words powerful when sung seems akin to asking why a particular melody can bring one to tears. (Perhaps there is an explanation, but I don't particularly care to find out.)

With all this is mind, it gives me a new perspective on that elusive notion of soul that is commonly associated with popular song. Whatever structural problems it might have, I believe one can't objectively deny this quality, which loosely corresponds to the visceral thrill the music inspires. There's a related Xgau concept, the "emotional complexity" of rock music. I feel like these are all trying to pin down why the music can be as pleasurable as it is. My contribution to the matter: maybe we're looking in the wrong place to explain popular song. Maybe the emotional complexity is not of rock music but of ourselves.

I'm recalling the pleasures of catalogues, and especially the special powers of well-crafted lyrics, of rock music aspiring to importance through the lyricist's command and contrast of the personal and the external.

I seem to have a love/hate relationship with Xgau. The good, first: what I like about him, compared to most other music writers, is his interest in looking beyond the mere surface of things, and putting things into some historical context. Fawning praise is definitely not his most common reaction, and even when he does praise, it's usually quite measured. This is good, because it makes it clear that truly great material (A/A+) is released quite rarely. Related to this, he's also really skeptical and near immune to hype, sometimes seeming actually hostile towards towards those he perceives as doling out unquestioning or insincere praise. These are good qualities in a reviewer, but the most essential is of course the writing: without it, opinion counts for naught. Stylistically, Xgau has it down: pithy and to the point, moving away from the obvious and trying to say something that helps frame an album in a larger context. All this I really approve of, because it's tiring to read reviews that merely list tracks and say whether they are individually good or not. His reviews don't try to be comprehensive because they see no need to be: information like the context of the band coming into the album, picks for the best songs on the album, and definitely the details of individual songs, are easily discovered from innumerable other sources. The reviews take it upon themselves, as I see it, to provide the one unique thing they can: namely, offering a critical judgement on the work. And he's definitely capable of writing the occasional classic line, which sometimes becomes intertwined with my mental map of an album; for example, his reviews of Moondance, Grievous Angel, and The Velvet Underground.

I say all this to make clear that when I sometimes say I hate him, it's a hyperbole, foremost, but it's also not blind distaste. Indeed, I find that the reasons in the first para somehow pronounce the faults I list below. With that disclaimer in mind, there are at least two things that get on my nerves. First, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way, it's hard to figure out what his reviews mean sometimes. For all my praise of the style and philosophy of his reviews, there are times when they tell me very, very little about the records in question. Obviously this might be because I haven't read or thought enough about music to decipher his references, and so this isn't really an "objective" criticism; nonetheless, it's a pretty serious one! With the positives from the first para in mind, I don't want to join the legions of people who claim he is intentionally obscure to show off or to seem superior; my sense is that he assumes the audience is smart enough to understand him. Still, slightly more guidance to the reader would go a long way towards making his reviews must-read. As you might expect, this point is especially frustrating when the album is rated poorly, yet I think it's pretty good; I'm very curious to find why his view is so different, but sometimes I am just left puzzled. Which brings me to point two.

The second issue is that we sometimes have a profound difference in tastes, pure and simple. Why this riles me up sometimes is because the criticism comes from someone given to critical thinking, and cannot be readily dismissed as idle ranting. Maybe worse yet, one gets the awful fear that the fellow might be right. But fundamentally, I just disagree with some of his judgements of what makes music good. There's no point being coy about specifics, so let me name some: Henry's Dream, for a start. To weaken my case, I should say that it's not my candidate for Cave's best album lyric-wise. But the condescension in his quotes of Cave admirers is unwarranted: come on, you can't paint us all as an insipid mob who would swallow anything with shades of high-art just to appear sophisticated. At least in my case, admiration of his ties is only in addition to the quality of the songwriting. And yes, fans and critics do have this odd distrust of high art except when one of their own has a connection to it ("classically trained" is frequently cited as a badge of honour), I'll admit. But I doubt that any Cave admirers are suggesting that his lyrics are poetry in the classical sense of the word, and if they are they're hardly any different to the legions of fans of Bob Dylan or Paul Simon or Leonard Cohen (oops! :-)). If one digs further, there is the unflattering portrait of Cave as a "death freak", which is too simplistic, and so on and so on. In short, I think he's simply wrong on Nick Cave. Most recently, there is the review of an AR Rahman best-of. Doesn't make much sense, but if it implies what I think it implies, namely that it's just pleasant schmuck...it means war. (Marginal kudos to him for reviewing the thing, though.) And finally, there is the infamous A- review of SouljaBoy which I don't feel knowledgeable enough to comment on too much. (My instinct tells me it's bogus, but you never know.)

Of course, one might ask what the alternative is: the legions of reviewers on Web 2.0? I prefer Xgau. I like having people who, first, definitely know more than me, but also have a verifiable and consistent take on popular song over a long time period. I like reading people like myself to give suggestions on what to purchase, say, but for analysis that goes beyond what CDs are worth buying, I would go with a good journalist. Which I would have to say Xgau is, despite the criticisms detailed above. In summary then, while there are times he leaves me fuming, I see him as a very important critic; should he influence an upcoming music journalist whose writing avoids my subjective criticisms, that would be simply wonderful.

(By the way, on reflection, the moral that I seem to have derived from writing this piece is: perhaps it's wise not to get too worked up about music reviews. Music fills that role quite nicely.)

The download dilemma

My opposition to music downloading has been an interesting barometer to measure my changing perceptions of music. I'm still a staunch CD-buyer, but even I admit being tempted with the prospect of modern indie artists, for whom the risk ratio is much higher than what I am used to. I once placed enormous value on the tactile qualities of a CD, especially when I actually used the CD directly to listen to the music. It gave an opportunity to flip through the liner notes, and even when the music finished it was nice to look at the CD's place among its brothers on the shelf. Lately of course, my CDs have been in pristine condition because they're only opened once, to be converted into digital form, and subsequently sit quietly for months on end. I hardly ever read liner notes as a result, and longing gazes to the shelf are pretty much the only reaction their physical presence elicits.

Things become greyer when I think of CDs that lie in a house overseas. Not only my old collection that lies undisturbed, but the new CDs that family have added. It might be years before I see them, and so effectively the digital form is the only proof I have of their existence. Is this dramatically different to simply having the music in a digital form? Much as I'd like to argue that the knowledge of their physical presence counts for something, even I see that that's somewhat weak (even if not completely indefensible).

As for the "try before you buy" school of thought, I can't argue with it, really. What offsets this for me is that I really like hearing an album fresh; especially so, as you might expect, if the album turns out to be really good. This lies outside the music itself, sure. But when I say I like music, I think what I mean is not just the sounds themselves, but these "meta" pleasures as well; I don't think I can claim that my love of the sounds is greater than many people, but the meta pleasures, maybe. (The same, of course, applies to a stroll around a good record store.) There's nothing preventing me from downloading the entire album and listening to it in entirety, but there seems to be an implicit sense of it not demanding serious attention. I haven't parted with money, so there's no emotional reason to persist with something that seems initially puzzling.

What CD purchasing also prevents is overconsumption. Part of the allure of downloading is that it makes so much available instantly. I can imagine that once you get into the habit, quitting is close to impossible. When everything is available with no effort, it's pretty tempting to try and listen to everything in one go. In other words, persisting with a single album and letting it define one's world for weeks/months on end requires conscious effort. (It's possible, sure, but difficult.) I don't know if we can say that this is an objectively better mode of listening - probably not - but it's what makes me quite uneasy about downloading culture. I fear that our nature makes overconsumption natural (whether we realize it or not), and that means a devalued musical culture.

It goes without saying that I could be wrong about everything. The positive of this possibility is that it means I can listen to Bon Iver within a decade.

I've noticed that at least three times now, I've been unable to summarize my preference in music. Not because it's amazingly eclectic or anything, but because (a) I don't really listen to that much of it, and (b) I don't detect a coherent thread connecting most of my library, which, aside from a few outliers whose catalogues I am deeply familiar with, is a slew of artists where I have at most two or three albums. Now that I have time to mull over the question, I'd call my library by and large the tried and true branch of rock music; "classic rock" without the connotations that that term carries. (I'm really not completely familiar with the Who & Floyd, say.) Reason (a) I've already discussed several times. What of (b)?

As I pointed out at the start, I instinctively don't want to call (b) eclecticism as much as I do laze. Yet, while laze might play some part, I think the relative lack of depth is best explained by my extreme propensity to saturation. With that claim in place, why is it the case? Certainly a quirk of personality to an extent. But what vexes me is the following: could it also be the relative lack of quality in the artists I pursue? Are most of them just worth two good albums? If so, we might all be doomed. I naturally think the things I like are objectively pretty good, and I can say that most have been received fairly favourably among the critics. But somehow, I haven't managed to find more than a handful whose catalogues have provided a slew of satisfying albums. My hope is that the fact that I know about relatively little music, and have been operating on a small section of it, means that I might be missing out on some artists who have released, say, five or six good albums. Off the top of my head, I can think of two artists immediately whom I would never have guessed, prior to listening to them, were capable of as much good material as I've discovered. My personal inferiority complex might be transferring to the music I listen to, then.

I suppose the tiny drops of classical fall outside, and remain unscathed. But I still wonder if I will ever be able to fully appreciate the genre. I am fairly confident that popular song, and its "emotional complexity", will be the primary form of music for me; classical provides a nice foil, a sense of scale and balance. I hope I can continue to find resonant music in popular song.

By the way, what I really don't want to say my catalogue is, although I hate to admit it might be as good a description as there is: Starostin's music. Although, if I think about it, there are worse things for a catalogue to be than a subset of a reliable reviewer's recommendations. The uncertainty I have is whether it means I display sufficient individual thought when it comes to music, but then I start wondering about the objective quality of music, and all that. Let me quit while I'm ahead and think about how good my last 3 non-Starostin albums are.

Just for the record - I still think GS is a good reviewer, and all-round astute writer on popular song. As I've grown somewhat older, my worship of him has slowly subsided, but on reading one of his essays the other day I realized that his writing can still be pleasing. I think even he will admit that some of the opinions he has expressed are not so tenable - the death of popular song, for example - but I've yet to find many people who can match his calm, as-close-to-objective-as-possible reviews. Nowadays, though I have very humble aspirations in terms of writing about music, I'd still like to be as good as possible. GS is still as good a role model as any to work to this end.

I need to be reminded, ever so often, that not everyone knows the details of the entire catalogues of Dylan, Springsteen, Simon and the like (AllMusic is still not a ubiquituous name!); not even people with an interest in music of that time. In fact, even ignoring specific artists, not everyone thinks about music in terms of albums. I observe this not as something to be proud (or ashamed) of, but as evidence that my aim of in-depth knowledge (in popular song, but in other areas too) is not as common as I sometimes think.

Songs that bring out a rare urge in me - hitting the replay button.

1) Ween, "Take Me Away". Regarding Macca's debut, GS makes the observation that only a genius like Macca could take a single verse and craft "That Would Be Something" out of it. I'm not saying Ween are on the same level as that master melodicist, but they have at least managed the same feat. Upon first listen of Chocolate and Cheese, I found myself unable to resist replaying this one more time, which is something I very rarely do. It's rare that a first listen is so convincingly gripping that I absolutely need another to hear the song again right away. This might not be the average psychoanalyst's first choice for a song I'd take to immediately - I'm not entirely myself sure why I like it so much, but one aspect I do like is what I perceive to be an expression of genuine feeling that says exactly enough. One verse is enough because nothing more needs to be said - that long sigh near the end is more than enough.

2) Gram Parsons, "A Song For You". As diametrically opposed to (1) as you'd like, but my analysis of it is very similar. Emmylou Harris sounds superb, and the melody is similarly fitting the tone. But "Take me down to your dancefloor" is the clincher, and "honest" was ringing through my head when I heard it. I use "honest" a lot in my mental analysis of music, and I think what I really mean is that it has soul. It speaks something important which exists outside the artistic world it resides (and was created) in.

I wrote about "rock poetry" a few years ago, with no success - not even I understand just what my position was at the time. I'd like to make a quick observation on the matter now that some time has passed. My stance now is strongly inspired by Christgau's: namely, that the function of lyrics is rather different than that of a poem, as the latter is meant to be read, the former to be sung. Good lyrics can often seem unusually flat when quoted, the words themselves sans musical context somehow seeming not as bright as when heard. Their general inability to translate strongly to the pure page shouldn't be taken as a negative pronouncement on the form, I think: it's just that lyrics (obviously) rely on their medium to convey emotion, and so comparisons to classical poetry are unfair. I understand what people mean when they call gifted songwriters "poets" - the meaning of the word has somewhat shifted I suppose - but taking it too literally can lead to confusion and crises of confidence (I speak from experience!). It's a different form, and has different methods of making you feel something. So, assessing the worth of a songwriter is necessarily more complex than simply comparing his writing to that of poets past - for there are few who could rise to such a challenge.

As always, this view is subject to change as well, but the issue was bothering me for a while now. I never knew mimicking Christgau was such an easy option!