A decade later, pawing through the wistful mists of time, here’s what I’ve decided: I don’t like this band, and I don’t like this song, but I love listening to this song. Which is to say: I dislike it in the abstract, and I dislike its consituent parts, but I love when it’s actually put in my ears. Watching these guys raindance around somebody’s backyard in Arizona and wiggle their little panflutes makes me want to headbutt them all, but I’m on listen number eleven of this song and I don’t want it to end. So this is a reminder to myself that songs and bands (and &c.) can play various roles in our lives — sometimes oppositely so; sometimes simultaneously so — and also a reminder to myself that the most unlikely things can become meaningful to us if we’re honest with ourselves and we keep our senses alert. It’s easy to get jaded and ornery and pretend like we’re the arbiters and keepers of our own taste, but it’s so much more useful and interesting to a step back and self-assess. Here: “The worst single of 1995 makes me feel young and excited and weirdly horny.” OK, now you go.
Exactly. More to read in full post.
