Thoughts Upon Viewing Four Minutes of MTV on a Prosaic Morning in July or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Inevitable 2012 Apocalypse

Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. I suppose there comes a moment in every man's life when he begins to feel he may no longer be fully conversant in the endlessly mutable folkways of his nation's youth. This must be a sensation as old as time itself. As long as there have been younger people, there have assuredly been older people who feel a certain concomitant confusion when confronted by the the younger people's strange and decidedly insular social practices. I have little doubt that twenty thousand years ago, a hirsute primitive gazed abstractly upon a yawning, ice-bound vista only to spy a gaggle of tweens rolling a stone in a thoroughly bizarre, wholly unimagined fashion and felt confounded, lonely and afraid.

I'd long thought this realization would strike me rather suddenly, like a chambray bolt of Land's End lightning. I figured I would be old, weak, slow, tired, resplendent in business casual, the faint whiff of creeping cultural death hanging upon my burgundy mock turtleneck like so much Aqua Velva, a willing supplicant in my own inevitable transmogrification. Alas, twas but a fleeting, ephemeral dream. Behold the pale rider of my own private cultural apocalypse: the video for Just Kait's "Sick". What? You've never heard of this song? Consider yourself fortunate.

Who is this young woman? Well, her name is Kaitlyn DiBenedetto and she apparently also performs the theme song to the "hit" MTV series, "Parental Control" which she expanded into a full length tune entitled, "U Suck." (I imagine this song shines an unforgiving light upon the largely unacknowledged and as yet uncataloged vicissitudes of tempest-tossed teen romance in the time of the aughts). According to her Myspace page, she is 17, and "lives for music, but most of the time her life is a little more complicated." When she "can't find the words, she writes a song." When she "feels like screaming or punching a wall, she turns up the volume." Geez. Let's just hope she can find those words (and a lot of them).

Without further ado, behold the offending video:

So much for the hope that this slice of stultifyingly soporific pop would actually be a thoughtful teen-centric commentary on the current state of our nation's failing healthcare system. Congratulations, Just Kait. You have made the worst music video in America. Rascal Flatts, please try harder. What is this world coming to? It is a very sad day indeed when three sensitive, well-groomed Ohioans can no longer be counted upon to deliver the kind of menacing musical cinema certain to frighten small children, excite caged animals and convince foreign nationals to fear the specter of American influence.

Kurt Cobain and Samuel Bayer's heretofore definitive presentation of the apocalyptic high school pep rally run amok has been supplanted as our culture's most terrifying vision of the secret life of the American teenager. Somehow, and with seemingly very little effort, Just Kait has bested them. And how. Avril Lavigne behold your legacy.

While both videos take place in the pedestrian confines of that great center of high school extracurricular life, the gym, so end their similarities. Unlike "Teen Spirit", the video for "Sick" features no shots of hollow-eyed, apathetic youths colliding in what constitutes our generation's savage contribution to the decidedly uneven catalog of contemporary social dance. There are no grainy, sepia-flecked visions of enraptured, inked, and anarchically-minded cheerleaders. No unsettling shots of a transfixed and aged janitor desperately clutching a mop handle and hungrily eying a very damp cloth. Nope. Just freshly-scrubbed, grain-fed, athletically inclined, all-American youths prone to positive choices unloosed in a public space.

The video for "Sick" unfolds like some low-budget, thoroughly manic, phantasmagoric vision of "edgy" teen culture as conjured by Lou Dobbs. It's so excruciatingly wholesome it's warped; a terrifying journey into the savage heart of the American dream as dreamt by the American Coalition for the Family. This video has it all: Graffiti-artists, jugglers, gymnasts, bikes, rollerblades, cheerleaders, hula hoops, an amorous, acrobatically inclined male (seriously, this young man is a menace - He must be stopped), competitive sports. Wait. What? Competitive sports? Seriously. Who directed this video? Dan Cortese?

The music is even worse. Three minutes and fifteen seconds of vapid mall punk packaged as affirmation/celebration of autonomy for a teen horde whose constituents likely view juggling or riding a bike in a crowded indoor space as rebellious social choices. Perhaps "Sick" only proves the point and power of "Teen Spirit"'s high school danse macabre. "Teen Spirit" was and still is an absolute molotov cocktail of boundless angst unleashed upon the that most sacred and beatific of teenage communal experiences: the pep rally.

Watching this video today, it still looks and feels completely unhinged, like the perfect visual complement to a song that would ultimately convince a generation of listeners they no longer needed Bret Michaels to give them something to believe in. For all its inevitable commodification and commercialization, perhaps grunge was so appealing because it was music for angry teens that didn't sound or feel like music made by angry teenagers. It felt earnest and real. It felt like it mattered. And perhaps it did (if the current state of "alternative radio" is any real measure, it never left and the year may very well still be 1997).

It certainly wasn't your typical disposable, pre-fab, foment by numbers (like "Sick") so often foisted upon teens yearning for an empathetic soundtrack. It's purveyors and progenitors were compelling, charismatic, flawed, unwashed, impolite, slovenly and by extension (at least to the untrained suburban eye) dangerous, and it is this combustibility (once endemic to rock 'n roll but wholly absent from teen and rock music today) that perhaps makes grunge the last meaningful gasp of truly rebellious teen culture in a world increasingly obsessed with irony and the next big thing.

I never thought I would be grateful to have lived during the apogee of the grunge era, but upon hearing/viewing what is rocking your average teenager's iPod these days, I count myself fortunate to have tuned in and turned on when heroin-addled, flannel-clad, hopelessly-tortured frontmen stalked the earth. In fact, I feel stupid and contagious.

Cassettes: The New Black?

I suppose this was inevitable. Or was it? Is it me or is the cassette having the best summer ever? That's right. The cassette. Guys want to be him. Girls want to be with him. So. hot. right. now. Don't call it a comeback. He's been here for years. After all, he is big. It's just the music that got small. Sham-wow. I mean, what do we even know about the cassette? Apparently, it began with a single intrepid German (as does seemingly everything on this blog - We're beginning to wonder where we might be without this nation and its industrious, innovative people) Literally translated from the French for "little box", cassette tapes were first mass-produced in Europe in 1964, and whether you're currently a musician or a music fan, you were likely raised in a time of cassette hegemony (or at the very least, consumer co-equaldom). But is it possible, is it really possible, that anyone truly misses the tape?

It began with a little more than a whimper. First, Dirty Projectors release Bitte Orca on tape. Now, every lo-fi, tech-pop and indie rock outfit of (limited) consequence has a cassette release pending. How did it come to this? Is it possible that the tape, that cumbersome relic, that seeming fossil of your once and former youth, is the new vinyl? Is the tape quickly becoming a shibboleth for anti-commercialism in an independent music world increasingly beset by technological advancement and nascent stardom? Will there come a day in the not too distant future when irony-minded twenty-somethings will eschew their iPods for Walkmans (can someone from Sony please tell me the appropriate pluralization for this word)?

As children of the 80s and early 90s, we undoubtedly maintain a certain redolence for the cassette. It was there when you actually thought you liked the Spin Doctors. When you realized that Wilson Phillips were the only people, other than maybe Jesus Jones, who really understood you. It stood by you during that unfortunate Nelson/Firehouse dalliance. It was there when it was socially acceptable to listen to U2. And, of course, it was there when Kurt Cobain died. For so many of us, the tape was an essential and inextricable part of many of our earliest music experiences (that is until we discovered Columbia House's CD subscription service and they began mailing us copies of Red Hot Chili Peppers' What Hits!?! for the low, low price of $17.98 because we claimed an interest in "alternative musics". This still seems strangely unforgivable. Seriously. Worst CD of all-time. Hands down. It's like an album made by people who hate music for people who want to hate music more. They probably don't even have copies of this thing in prison). But was this principal technology of our largely misspent youths really that awesome? No, but maybe that's the point. With all this sleek, new, shiny technology, what could be crazier than releasing your music on tape? You can't do anything with a tape. Other than maybe make another tape. And then maybe make some more tapes.

Needless to say, the CD lobby did not see this coming. Just when they thought it was safe to go outside, it's suddenly 1985 all over again (well, perhaps some sort of alternate 1985 with more internet, less communism, no 227, and fewer choices for the discriminating, sartorially-inclined stonewashed fabric devotee). Just imagine how these once happy few must feel. Talk about a losing streak. First, Creed disbands. Then, the widespread proliferation of increasingly empowering, egalitarian technologies all but guarantees the inevitable demise of your extant industrial model. Sure, that was a bit of a setback, but a few timely lawsuits directed at senior citizens, small children and baby seals, not to mention the unflagging support of those fabled lovers of legality, Metallica and Dr. Dre (They are down with the kids! They speak their language. Maybe they can reason with them) would surely convince the public of the dangers of multimedia content, free music and their internet connection, not to mention their true love of overpriced CDs.

But the cassette? No one expects the cassette. It's kinda like that time in the seventh grade. You know the time. No, not that time. That other time. C'mon. How could you possibly forget that time. You know what time we're talking about. You liked that girl and you thought she liked you more than she liked that other guy (Wait. This does sound familiar. Who wouldn't like you? You're great. She's great. You have so much in common. You're practically the same person. You're both in the seventh grade. Her locker is pretty close to your locker. You're both "struggling" in Health. Your signature fabric is stonewashed denim. You're pretty sure she owns something denim that may or may not have been stonewashed. She confessed to you during the recent class trip to the iMax theater that she finds it hard to respect a man who wears a fannypack (oh what bracing honesty!) and you say you "feel the same way" and "don't know why you continue to wear this thing to most school-sponsored functions" (although you secretly think that you may never be able to fully love a woman who is unable to appreciate the obvious merits of a tote that is neither a valise nor a satchel but gives a man the freedom to wander this world unencumbered yet adequately supplied)).

Next thing you know it's the Holiday Informal and you think, "This is my moment. Perhaps I'll ask her to dance during 'Stairway to Heaven'. After all, it's a really long song. Perhaps we'll talk about Health class." You put on a tie and your best stonewashed jeans, and your mom drives you to school. You arrive at the dance only to find most of your friends loitering in the men's bathroom. Somewhat troubled by this most unusual social practice, you spend the next forty-five minutes trying to find a suitable hiding place for your fannypack. After safely stowing it behind a trashcan in what appears to be a well-lit, low-traffic area, you head for the dancefloor. And then you see her.

Boyz II Men blares forth from the speakers as you begin to obliquely move in her general direction. While "Stairway to Heaven" would have been nice (after all, it is a very long song - plenty of time to talk about Health class), you feel that this number is somehow more perfect as it will finally give you that rare opportunity to say without saying all the things you've always wanted to say. Iridescent lights oscillate wildly. Smooth East-coast harmonies intone promises of timeless fidelity. How could one man's voice be so deep? Could this moment be more perfect? Your thoughts turn to the inevitable: eighth grade, being seen in relative proximity to one another in public spaces, the open sharing of undesired lunch items, the long talks about Health class, and maybe even a life together. Then you realize that she's dancing with her ex-boyfriend who you thought moved to Kansas. Oh the horror. The horror. Mistah Kurtz. He dead.

Yep. It's just like that. At least if you're the CD lobby living (and marketing) in a world increasingly hostile to the CD. Have we arrived at the peculiar, wholly unanticipated juncture when both the internet and home taping will begin killing the music industry? Have we stumbled upon some sort of high tech/no tech apocalypse scenario for an industry already reeling from the combined toll of peer-to-peer networks and declining consumer preference for the physical record and the album format? Well, probably not. But for whatever reason the tape is back, and in a less than big, but seemingly consequential way. While we can't say we're exactly excited about it, this recent analog renaissance will make us feel a little less bad when we inevitably spend next weekend listening to the Billy Joel tapes we stole from our parents. After all, we're just doing it because everybody else is.

From the Frontlines of the Criminally Underappreciated: Mobius Band

Let's get mathematical. According to Wikipedia, The Mobius strip or Mobius band (alternatively written Mobius or Moebius in English) is a surface with only one side and only one boundary component. The Mobius strip has the mathematical property of being non-orientable. It is also a ruled strip. It was discovered independently by the German mathematicians August Ferdinand Mobius and Johann Benedict Listing in 1858. Wow. These appear to be words, but what could they possibly mean?

Before we proceed any further, to my loyal readers greatly concerned by this narrative turn, fear not. You are not alone. I am here with you. While this blog is most assuredly unpopular, we have no desire at present to jettison our great ambition of becoming one more music blog of limited consequence in a world rife with music blogs of limited consequence. In these early gestational weeks, we remain earnestly committed to further marginalizing and minimizing our target demographic by profiling the bands we believe matter or at the very least should matter more to you. To change the heart and minds of seven or eight friends or relatives. That is our dream. Won't you dream with us, friend and/or relative?

Nevertheless, if the length of a Wikipedia entry is any indicator of possible interest, a blog dedicated to 19th German mathematical innovations has a great deal of potential. Perhaps as our web empire inevitably expands we will begin to touch upon such matters. In other words, possess yourself in patience, gentle, undoubtedly disappointed, mathematically-inclined, foreign national reader. It is only a matter of time before this blog proves an invaluable resource to you and MathCounts competitors everywhere.

We would also like to apologize to all our German readers for the complete lack of umlauts in those introductory sentences (see: three paragraphs ago). Yes, your eyes do not deceive. I typed Mobius no less than four times and nary an umlaut was harmed (or used) in the spelling of said word. But are you really surprised? As history has repeatedly shown, there is no greater tyrant than a twenty-something American with a blog. We are the very epitome of caprice. We have little patience for the grammatical conventions of our own land, let alone the spelling practices of distant nations. What's that you say about your centuries old culture? Please. I shop at Target.

Now. Where were we? The music industry is a cruel mistress. I'm beginning to think that about the worst thing that could ever befall a band is for me to like their record. While I have little empirical data to confirm this suspicion, my unflagging support appears to be an all but certain talisman for spirit-crushing, career-derailing anonymity. Call it a working hypothesis. Mobius Band's (Peter Sax, Noam Schatz, Ben Sterling) Heaven was one of my surprise favorite records of 2007. I suppose you know where this is going. Let's just say they haven't spent the last year surfing upon an endless tide of gilded coins and opening for Kanye West. But then again I suppose this article has just hit the world wide web. Like the stimulus package, it just needs a little time.

Sure, to paraphrase 90s alt-rockers Cracker, what the world needs now is another band from Brooklyn, like I need a hole in my head, but play this record for anyone, and they will like it (well, they'll probably like it. For all I know, you maintain a particularly pugnacious assemblage of associates, a thoroughly irascible people given to contrarian posturing and polemic. These people probably don't even like you). The songs are catchy. The production is smart. Computers appear to be involved (and technology is so in this fall!). There are enough gadgets, glitches, pops and fidgets employed to keep the songs fresh and interesting with repeated spins. Seriously. Why haven't you heard this record? The album itself features three standout would be singles if rock radio was not run by a giant computer in Colorado ("Friends Like These", "Hallie" and "Tie A Tie"). Must our relationship with technology be so complicated?

And what's even better about this band? On Valentine's Day, they're actually thinking of you. Just three sensitive guys with great songs trying to making it in this world. What's not to like?Those interested in hearing more from this group are encouraged to listen to the One Man in a Small Room radio broadcast tomorrow (7/28) from 5:00 - 8:00 p.m. on WLUR 91.5 where we will take on those computers in Colorado in an undoubtedly futile but determined struggle to restore balance to the increasingly unbalanced world of radio.

Seemingly Ubiquitious Weird Tapes Remixes Peter Bjorn and John

This guy is everywhere. I suppose such omnipresence is inevitable when one maintains three concurrent musical projects. Nevertheless, I recall a simpler, more innocent time (read: three months ago) when bloggers oft puzzled over a possible connection between Weird Tapes and Memory Cassette. Were they the same band? The brainchild of a single individual? European? Merely affiliated in some tangential way? The release of Memory Tapes' excellent "Bicycle" confirmed a great many suspicions as to the interrelationship between the two, and now you get what we have here: an artist seemingly on everyone's radar.

Forfeited inscrutability aside, it's a pretty good time to be Weird Tapes/Memory Cassette/Memory Tapes aka Philadelphia's Dayve Hawk (formerly of the defunct metal-dance act, Hail Social). First the P4K Rising tag, and now he manages to make a Peter Bjorn & John song from arguably this year's most disappointing release interesting. Admittedly, "It Don't Move Me" was one of the stronger tracks from the Spin-loved Living Thing, but Mr. Hawk's version is a fairly deft, tasteful and ebullient retouching that bears little resemblance to the original; not entirely unlike something Axel Willner (The Field) might do in his most straightforward of moments.

But don't take my word for it. You can download the Weird Tapes version of PB&J's "It Don't Move Me" here. You should also check out the Weird Tapes re-working of Memory Cassette's "Surfin'" via the completely free Calls & Responses Remix EP issued to celebrate the 7/24 release of the Call & Response EP (out via Acephale). Memory Tapes' LP Seek Magic drops this September via Acephale/Something in Construction.

And, as always, if you would like to hear more Weird Tapes/Memory Cassette/Memory Tapes tune into the One Man in a Small Room radio broadcast this Tuesday (7/28) from 5:00 - 8:00 p.m. on WLUR 91.5.

From the Frontlines of the Criminally Underappreciated: Celebration

Baltimore, Maryland's Celebration. Katrina Ford (vocals, percussion, sometimes TVOTR guest vocalist), Sean Antanaitis (guitar and a bunch of other stuff) and David Bergander (drums and sometimes member of Beach House). I love this band. I'm not quite sure why they aren't more popular. They have a truly unique sound. They have great songs. They have all the right friends (TVOTR, Nick Zinner, they even guested on ScarJo's Tom Waits covers record). They have great songs. They are supremely talented, which, as history has too oft shown, is no guarantee of anything save perhaps poverty, frustration and untimely demise. At least they have all the right friends. Did I mention they have really great songs?

Their 2007 release The Modern Tribe (produced by Dave Sitek) was one of my favorite albums of that year, and it is a singular splash of manic, tribal, but infinitely listenable, polyrhythmic pop. Deftly shifting between contemplative moments of utter sublimity ("Evergreen", "Heartbreak", "In This Land") and frenzied, clangorous post-punk ("Hands Off My Gold", "Pony"), Tribe sounds like nothing else released that year (or since). It is a dexterous, nuanced and complex record made by an adventurous and expert group of musicians that somehow manages to sound both primitive and yet futuristic; like itinerant, percussive, electrified folk music from some distant galaxy.

Well, never ones to rest on their laurels, Celebration has apparently returned to the studio (or "cave" as they seem to insist on referring to it) and emerged with three new tunes for your listening enjoyment. You can download them for free at http://celebrationelectrictarot.com. Be sure to check the website periodically as additional tunes will be posted there as they are recorded (at least, that is, until they have enough songs for an album).

Lest you think this is all some empty gesture of generosity and not a commentary on the present state of the recording industry, we encourage you to consider the following few words from Katrina Ford regarding the aforementioned downloads:

"Greetings Dear Ones, We, as Celebration, have felt the continual growth of web culture's need for barrier-free exchange. We also feel that the traditional methods of releasing music have put too much distance between us. As we see it, the current music business model is crumbling. We believe their methods waste resources and time in a "print for market world" that no longer makes sense. The birth of the MP3 has dreamt the death of the CD format, and so all across the board, CD sales have dropped. What has given way is something so magical and evolutionary, music has grown, that we have only begun to understand the cultural impact of this sharing. So, past the piles of broken CD cases and badly scratched polycarbonate rainbow discs, there lies a fantastic world of freedom --freedom to share instantly with little or no impact on the environment, in a seemingly infinite, eternal and virtually cost free universe of the world wide web. This is our emancipation. Without the need for manufacturing CDs and the danse macabre of the promotional corporate machine, we can be free to release our music when and how we want --no waiting. We know nothing of the marketing world and don't care about the vampires any more. Our plan and experiment is to post new songs monthly, as we create and record them. Under the creative commons attribution non-commercial share alike license. all of our new music will be free to download on our new website launching this Spring Equinox, March 21st 2009. When we have enough music for an album, we will release it on vinyl for those who want to have something to hold."

Heady stuff. For those of you presently wondering, "I really like these songs, but will I ever have the opportunity to remix this material?" wonder no more. Katrina promises that audio stems will be available in the not too distant future.

Ms. Ford raises an interesting point. One does puzzle over just what the end result of all this technology might be. Is the CD a veritable dinosaur or at the very least a dead man walking? Given vinyl's seeming resurgence, will we eventually encounter a music marketplace in which vinyl and audio file formats are the primary modes of content delivery? It's a little too early to say, but it seems something has to give in light of the music industry's current economic woes.

Bands and record labels have responded in many different ways to the ceaseless encroachment of the interwebs and the public's seemingly insatiable desire for more and more content. Celebration seems to have found a way to harness this interest and enthusiasm for good, but it seems a model destined to cannibalize the sale of their album to all but the most fervent of fans (or those listeners wholly aware of this initiative - a small number to be sure). Should they care? Does it really matter? Probably not. As Ms. Ford's earlier comments indicate, the most interesting aspects of the current music industry debate are the complex issues of (artistic) creativity, integrity, motivation and purpose one finds within these larger, more pedestrian consumerist questions. Until record labels discover some way to once again control the distribution and delivery of the content, technology will continue to be the great emancipator of recording artists everywhere. The internet: Allowing bands to be all they want to be since Al Gore dreamt it up.

Interested in hearing new Celebration tunes on the radio? Tune into my One Man in a Small Room radio broadcast this Tuesday (7/28) from 5:00 - 8:00 p.m. on WLUR 91.5.

Pearl Harbour & Observations on the Rise of Lo-Fi

These are truly heady times for a music fan. Where do these bands come from? I like to imagine that there are innumerable, neon-flecked sign-up sheets loudly proclaiming, "Band started yesterday. Have computer. Need musicians. Hundreds of dollars await" posted in high-traffic areas in and around our nation's metropolitan quarters where creatively inclined and/or idle youths are likely to congregate (bus stations, train terminals, roller rinks, Target, derelict, post-industrial spaces). Perhaps this unflagging proliferation is the inevitable product of egalitarian technologies, rising attention deficits and the individual empowerment of punk rock proselytization. Maybe there will come a time when we will all have bands. Three chords and the truth will ring out from every breakfast nook in the land. If you will it, it is no dream.

These days it seems that every two or three hours another mysterious assemblage of musicians has unleashed one more muddled, fractured paean upon the interwebs. How can one possibly keep up? Just when you think you have it all figured out, some wholly unfamiliar band with a pedigree that would make Eli-Whitney proud releases a song that sounds as if it might have been recorded in a ventilation shaft at a distance of 100 feet. Encomia follow. "Label" boldly promises limited pressing cassette.

I won't say Pearl Harbour is such a band, but there is scant information available on their Myspace page as to whom they might be (save a rather fierce yet blurry picture of what appears to be a turkey, claims of a Los Angeles residence and a couple of tour dates). I'm not sure what a winged albeit intelligent fowl might have to do with any of this, but Pearl Harbour do have two great, gauzy jams, ("Lost at Sea" and "Sunburn") that are oddly catchy and feel like desperate, warped, sun-kissed transmissions from a distant satellite heart. Those interested in their own copies of these tunes, should check here and here (via Nopaininpop). Those who really dig this stuff, should consider Pearl Harbour's "Calistonia Dreamin' Sessions" CD-R with handmade cover art (just $5! unless you live outside the U.S. and A. ($8)). For more information, email surfsideslasher@gmail.com. The band will also be releasing the "Something About the Chapparrals" 12" in October.

Clearly, you don't listen to this music for the virtuosity of its players, but with all things lo-fi, it seems the more you listen, the more you hear. Perhaps this explains the nascent interest in its many purveyors. In a musical landscape rife with obvious, lowest common denominator jams, these murky, layered songs are difficult, and they reward the patient and perseverant listener. What first sounds like hiss, mumbling and clatter, after a few spins, begins to bear striking resemblance to a song. By the tenth or fifteenth rotation, through some strange auditory alchemy, the noise seemingly subsides, and you actually just hear the melody. Like the sonic equivalent of a Seurat painting, what initially seems like a bunch of dots slowly comes into focus until you actually see (or hear, as the case may be) the full picture.

While these tunes are not structurally complicated, their simplicity enables a certain melodic richness, and it's interesting to think of why such bands might appeal in a world overrun by lecherous, glittered, pre-fab poptarts. While the music may seem and sound disposable, there is a certain timelessness to its spirit and aesthetic that owes a considerable debt to the forms and fashions of 50s and 60s commercial radio (as filtered through various 70s, 80s and 90s microgenres). Is it possible we're witnessing the first ripples in an "oldies" renaissance? It's not so unlikely. If we learned anything from last year's disco dalliance it was that anything (and I mean anything) is possible.

Interested in hearing more? Tune in to the One Man in a Small Room radio broadcast this coming Tuesday (7/28) from 5:00 - 8:00 p.m. for tunes from Best Coast, Real Estate, Woods, and, of course, Pearl Harbour.

I've got technologies. They're multiplying?

Admittedly, for the past six years, this fair broadcast has been decidedly regressive. However, as someone once said, the times they are a-changin'. And what peculiar synchronicity. Just as the cassette returns to prominence, myriad youths don neon, and the clatter of countless lo-fi bands captures the collective imagination of the twenty-something consumer demographic, I decide to cast my once cherished antiquarian ideals aside and dive headfirst into the blogosphere. Oh well. Here's hoping the interwebs are not the fad they once appeared to be. If this all goes horribly wrong I'm blaming you Al Gore.

This blog is intended to be something of a companion resource for the six or seven friends, relatives and/or weary interstate travelers (those poor souls unfortunate enough to find themselves near I-81's Exits 188, 191 and 195 between the hours of 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. on Tuesday evenings) who may or may not listen to my weekly radio show, One Man in a Small Room, on WLUR 91. 5 FM. Weekly playlists will be posted. Themes discussed. Obscure bands feted (a fate that is destined to all but guarantee their continued obscurity).

And so it begins. Stay tuned. Keep reading. Comments are appreciated. As a final note, I leave you with these words from a more prescient than he ever knew, James Thurber:

"Benvenuto Cellini said that a man should be at least forty years old before he undertakes so fine an enterprise as that of setting down the story of his life. He said also that an autobiographer should have accomplished something of excellence. Nowadays nobody who has a typewriter pays any attention to the old master's quaint rules. I myself have accomplished nothing of excellence except a remarkable and, to some of my friends, unaccountable expertness in hitting empty ginger ale bottles with small rocks at a distance of thirty paces. Moreover, I am not yet forty years old. But the grim date moves toward me apace; my legs are beginning to go, things blur before my eyes, and the faces of the rose-lipped maids I knew in my twenties are misty as dreams. At forty my faculties may have closed up like flowers at evening, leaving me unable to write my memoirs with a fitting and discreet inaccuracy or, having written them, unable to carry them to the publisher's. A writer verging into the middle years lives in dread of losing his way to the publishing house and wandering down to the Bowery or the Battery, there to disappear like Ambrose Bierce."

One day a server outside Des Moines will crash, and there will remain only whispers of a once proud people and their seemingly insatiable desire to opine, reflect and pontificate. God save our increasingly evanescent culture.