So I write stuff. And some people read it. I think. Ordinarily I wouldn’t care, but sometimes a little self-doubt trickles into my coffee cup (*sad trombone*), I wonder whether or not people “get me” and (I) feel the need to explain myself. Here’s the skinny: there are more than a few records I love so damn much it hurts. At times the compulsion to gush about them is overwhelming. It’s like I have to because there’s a slight possibility of a naïve, 18-year-old me somewhere on this big blue marble stumbling over my suggestion one day and having a wherehasthisalbumbeenallmylife? moment. Hear me out.
There is nothing -nothing- like listening to an amazing record for the first time, even if it is a decade old. I want to share that feeling. Sometimes old is boring, that can’t be denied. A lot of the time, however, the opposite holds true, whether we like to admit it or not; musically, listening to an “oldie” is often like holding a mirror up to the edgy here and now. That’s all. Now, on with the show.
