First Post

Like a lot of first posts, I have to fit "I stayed away from this for so long" somewhere, so I might as well stick it here in the first sentence. So, there it is. I watched everyone else pull everyone else's hair over livejournal and get love from their blogger buddies in pick-me-up comments , but I somehow stayed away from it all. I thought I caved when I got a facebook account. Even now, I wish I hadn't. Facebook, to me, has completely spun the life cycle around. You see, after high school is over, as your walking off the podium with your diploma, everyone is implicitly required to think or say, "I'M NEVER SEEING YOU GUYS AGAIN! HELL YES!" but facebook, has, if nothing else, controverted all that is meant and implied by this declaration. EVERYONE you've ever met is suddenly a click away, sending you bumper stickers and poking you like some inquisitive kid pokes a dead bird, making sure you're there, that you're well, that you're pursuing the same major, that you hate "the new facebook" as well, and much else besides. Facebook is having all aquaintances on speed dial, and, more horribly, it let's everyone know that you remember them. So, every day that goes by that you don't drop Mike Smith a line is a day spent consciously ignoring them. Time and space can't offer any cop-outs anymore.

I was thinking today about the music I listen to. I took a long, tortuous path to all the acts I have tucked away illegally on my computer. I never liked Rock in the first place. I was a teenage jazz cat. Yeah, I know...Only two musicians have changed my life- Frank Sinatra, and Coheed and Cambria. Before Frank, I hated most all music, or, rather, what I liked I didn't like enough to remember who wrote and performed it. I heard Frank's "I've Got the World on a String" when I was about 14, and laughed when I found out whose jazzy, nuanced voice I was hearing. "The Crooner?" I said. "The skinny ass-dude that had all the bobbysoxers cooing and swaying and shit? Music was the last thing on his mind." There's this popular misconception that the popular is a vulgar contamination of the good, something watered down, slid down the assembly line to be packaged and shipped to the masses, and, just maybe, it holds true in most cases. Music can be overly slick and commercial. But, I think Frank is one of those rare cases that just made the whole world fall in love with him. His songs had a goodness that didn't have to be analyzed on Pitchfork blogs. It was earthly and common, sure, but isn't that what music is all about? Art is usually prized on how well it "connects" with the perceiver. Anyone who has ever had a bad day, a girlfriend, or a lonely night can rightfully sign their names underneath the song listings for Sinatra's albums. He sings the human story, if I can let myself get a little lofty here.

Alas, it didn't take too long for me to understand how fucking lame I was. Rock was here and now (since 1950-something, I think), but I just couldn't really get into it. That's what I get for letting my sister work the radio, I guess. That all changed one fateful day at a Guitar Center. I remember going in with my dad and brother, looking for a new bass pedal or something for my brother's set, but being too distracted by all the posters to really help. Man, was I behind, I thought. Every square inch of that warehouse had a album cover glued to it, and some were really impressive. The art was epic and sort of morbid, a far cry from Frank's tipping of his fedora-the iconic, omnipresent photo on each record and poster. Intrigued, I worked my way to the center of the store, my journey sort of adopting a chronological progression, a walk through time to the present. I passed British Invasion bands, then punk pants, then glam bands, then emo bands, until I arrived at the center where a tower of brand new albums waited to be bought. "Coheed and Cambria: Good Apollo, I'm Burning Star IV," they said, and I remember being instantly annoyed. Bands only make up bizarre, quirky names like that to get attention, I thought. Music should speak for itself. I had a feeling that Coheed and Cambria just wanted me to check out their myspace and buy their shit. Well, that feeling became doing. The first four songs I heard in order were, "Once Upon Your Dead Body," "Wake Up," "In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth," and, last, "Welcome Home." The first was funky and strange, the second was touching and catchy, the third was haunting and heavy, and the last was a bombastic metal explosion. Coheed, then, was really the beach head for my later forays into good rock. I started listening to prog, progressive metal, post-hardcore, electronica, and indie stuff.

I don't know what brought all that on, but I'm glad I found something to write about. Stay tuned?