Finally, a post where I don't even mention drinking or being in a place I normally wouldn't be, unless you count Indiana.

Lately, almost everything I hear new-record wise sounds boring to me. Even stuff by bands I used to like: the new singles and albums by Oasis, Stereophonics, Nine Inch Nails and Radiohead* sounds boring as crap to me. In December, a friend brought me new ash album from London. It was unreleased stateside, and came in a fancy package with a bonus live CD. I stuck to the live CD more often than the studio album, for no real reason. Until I put the studio album on this weekend in my car and I found it....boring. *gasp.*

I don’t get any particular pleasure out of saying that a new record I’d like to like is boring. Though I’m frequently the guy saying “their old stuff is better,”—the de facto mantra of any “real” hip music fan—I mean it when I say it. It’s got such a stigma that not liking the new records as much makes me feel like an arrogant asshole. It gets even worse when the call is close—for example, Summerteeth by Wilco is awesome. But I’d be right for saying “Being There is better.” It’s so debatable that I just look like past-humping elitist. It’s a big problem for me theoretically, since I may not care what people think of me as a reviewer, but I also don’t want to alienate people at parties with my views on Modest Mouse—which has happened to me. More than once. More than once since 2005 started.

Am I too judgemental? Have I lost it completely? Maybe. Who cares. The real meat-and-potatoes of this post is that after I got sick of Meltdown, I went straight for 1977. It was like a tall glass of KoolAid after a day of swimming at Magic Waters. That is to say, it hit the spot like nothing else could have. Then, it left me wondering if I’d love this record so much if I got it today, or if everyone should be handed this record sometime in around the summer after their Sophomore year of high school, just to set them on the right track and give them the best possible soundtrack for the next year or so.

The album brings to mind so many ridiculously incongruent vital things: learning to play “Kung Fu” on a guitar in Tony Schaeve’s basement the night John gave me the record, which was also, I believe, the night we saw The Big Lebowski for the first time. Trying to convince Nathan that the sound at the beginning was a TIE Fighter, not a guy screaming (he’s come around since then.) Talking to Paul Mannone about the record in study hall, since it was one of only two albums we both owned at the time**. Hell, the first song I ever wrote was practically a pastiche on Oh Yeah when you listened to it hard enough.

I don’t think there’s any avoiding it: the albums you listen while you’re growing into a real person with discerning taste always sound awesome to you, even if they’re not the greatest. This makes me a little sad, because I just can’t see loving The Startling Line as much as I like even the crappiest of Ash B-Sides***.

With that said, I resolved in my car that afternoon to make a list of all the things that are awesome about 1977. Then I decided, once I started rambling them off, I’d limit the list to maybe the best 25. I’m open to the idea of submissions here, if you have one that’s your own. I know there’s gotta be a readership out there somewhere, and since I probably know you I’ll give you a 50% that you own 1977.

Anyway, all that’ll be in the next post, as I am currently getting ready to go to Indianapolis for the third Star Wars Celebration, hopefully in anticipation of a movie that doesn’t blow. See you in Indy!

Wow. Sorry about that “see you in Indy” thing.



*I know that in the traditional sense, Hail to the Thief isn’t new. But it is boring.

**The other one was Turn The Radio Off by Reel Big Fish

***The crappiest of Ash B-Sides, BTW, is probably “A Message from Oscar Wilde and Patrick The Brewer” which isn’t even a song, really. It’s similar to their other ‘hardly a song’ B-Sides, “Astral Conversations with Toulouse Lautrec” and “Luther Ingo’s Star Cruiser,” the latter of which is elevated to greatness by its hypnotic repeated lyric, which is…Ahem. “First I’m gonna gamble, then I’m gonna fuck you/I’m gonna fuck you in the ass.” Now, that’s from memory, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it went. I love B-Sides.

There was a time not too long ago where I found myself in Chicago, drinking the greatest Jungle Juice in Chicago at the apartment of the wonderful Aaron "Jewish by Nationality and, apparently, association" Weinberg and I wound up getting the crazy idea that I wanted to go to a bar with his equally wonderful cousin Gayle and her roommates.

Never mind that I tend to not like bars.

It sounded like a good idea at the time, based solely on the fact that Gayle and her friend, who were the most interesting people at Aarons*, were leaving. I went. It was a good time, but we were there for too long.

Too long.

The bar closed, and by that time I was so tired of being there, I was sitting next to a guy in a Nascar-embroidered, nice-and-dressy Western shirt and a giant cowboy hat. We had hijacked one of the the bar's TVs, and were watching Ernest Goes to Camp with the closed captioning on.

The real trick was getting home, though now I'm not sure why. It was a lot like being drawn and quartered: everyone was pulling in their own direction. One girl wanted to get a ride home in the SUV of a guy she'd just met (A.K.A. The Least Safe Way to Get Home.) One girl wanted to pile us all into a cab, despite the fact that there were six of us and I was the only one with money, a whopping five bucks. (A.K.A. The Least Likely Way to Get Home.) Still another girl wanted to just walk to the train station and take the freakin' train, the same way we'd come to the bar in the first place (A.K.A. The Least Popular Way to Get Home.)

So, still a little woozy from the Miller Lights my Nascar-and-Ernest buddy had fed me, I was given the charge of following the two girls who went on the train home. I honestly don't know what the others did, I just followed Gayle's instructions and we all made it back.

I don't have a moral for the story, but I do have a bizarre reason to tell it. On the way home that night, the two girls I was with were pissed off to the point of silence. None of us said a single word on the way home. Not that I was the one imposing the silence--I would've talked. Anyway, we're standing on the underground train platform somewhere in Chicago. An out-of-place hobo looking guy and two girls who look like Alpha Phis (no offense, Amanda) and one of their cell phones rings.

It's "Clocks." The Ringtone.

I absolutely have to fight laughter, almost to the point of tears at this whole situation. See previous post o' Clocks-Hating. It was just the final nail in the Coffin of Not Belonging Where I Was.**

Now, Why would I tell you that whole story? Just to post this? Yes. Because I just can't get over it. Here ends the reading.



*No disrespect to Hannah and Sarah, should they read this. But they don't count, I came with them.

**Though, to Gayle's credit, she did make me feel welcome there the whole time, and was genuinely worried about whether I had any fun. I did.