Hit the floor and crawl to Daddy.
Musical awakening came late to me. Well into my teens I was still listening to a strict diet of doo-wop (almost exclusively Inkspots), Sinatra and Bing, occaisionally spiced, when I was feeling giddy (a combined result of my hall monitor's badge too tightly pinned and my tie too stiffly Windsored) I'd dip into South Pacific or joust with Richard Harris kind of singing in Camelot. My Dad tried to steer me towards his precious Beatles on vinyl, instead I dug out his childhood disks, lurking in older embarrassment still, at the back - the Roger Miller, the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack. I detected dissappointment when I finally convinced my father I wasn't gay. I imagine he thought it would have been cool. He was right. A shockingly pustular teenager, I had Frank and Bing written on my schoolbag, and received the draconian schoolyard punishments I rightly deserved; I was narrow minded.
The arrival of far cooler people in my life of course activated the normal hormonal need to fit in so overnight I started buying CD's from every spectrum of music and musicology. I listened to as much of it as I could even when it started messing with after-school hockey and debating finals. I still have Use Your Illusion II in shrinkwrap. There is a couple of good tracks on it but. Now I seem able to listen to fucking anything and still bop my head.
The good side of this complete cross-genre acceptance of mine (I mean I listen to ANYTHING except South American Hard Metal) is that it is kind of cool to be able to enjoy whatever lopes up on stage at the Hopetoun and spits on you, the flip side is that I seem endlessly to arrive in conversations with metal fans about the post-irony in Mandy Moore lyrics, or extolling John Lennon's feedback to Timberlake Home and Away extras, defending Cuban and Medieval influences on 'Maybellene' to Newtown junkie buskers, so on. Pop music is a gorgeous wasteland, to misquote someone I was reading last night. It all comes from the same place eventually, non?
I spose what I'm trying to say is it's okay for me to like that Killer's albumn, right?
Cotton needs convincing, he even 'hates' some tracks. Doesn't stop him humming them in the shower I notice.
The arrival of far cooler people in my life of course activated the normal hormonal need to fit in so overnight I started buying CD's from every spectrum of music and musicology. I listened to as much of it as I could even when it started messing with after-school hockey and debating finals. I still have Use Your Illusion II in shrinkwrap. There is a couple of good tracks on it but. Now I seem able to listen to fucking anything and still bop my head.
The good side of this complete cross-genre acceptance of mine (I mean I listen to ANYTHING except South American Hard Metal) is that it is kind of cool to be able to enjoy whatever lopes up on stage at the Hopetoun and spits on you, the flip side is that I seem endlessly to arrive in conversations with metal fans about the post-irony in Mandy Moore lyrics, or extolling John Lennon's feedback to Timberlake Home and Away extras, defending Cuban and Medieval influences on 'Maybellene' to Newtown junkie buskers, so on. Pop music is a gorgeous wasteland, to misquote someone I was reading last night. It all comes from the same place eventually, non?
I spose what I'm trying to say is it's okay for me to like that Killer's albumn, right?
Cotton needs convincing, he even 'hates' some tracks. Doesn't stop him humming them in the shower I notice.
posted by tms at 7:01 PM
5 Comments:
i have the same issue schmitzle. Mr Brightside just won't get out of my head. and i can't stop listening to it in the car. it annoys me because i know i can do better.
seeing it on Channel V hightens my annoyance, with that terrible glitzy film clip. ARGH!
It's like Eskimo Joe found a way to write even blanker lyrics. I love Eskimo Joe.
What are you doing showering with Cotton, Schmitz?
the question is, what are you and cotton doing NOT showering with me and fits, schmitz?
There's nothing wrong with the Use Your Illusion long players. Axl's delusions of grandeur (that's what others called it, I reckon he was that rad) went through the roof with these bloated, pompous masterpieces.
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