Here is a deep dark secret: I have terrible taste in music. It is true, and there is no denying it. I must come clean. For anyone in doubt, this can be evidenced by the fact that today on the bus I heard a snippet of, “Journey of the Sorcerer,” – A fucking Eagles song, mind you! – and I almost started crying.
(Mind you, I could easily defend this by explaining that the song in question is the theme song to the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy radio show, but does that excuse me in any way from liking the song anyway? Certainly not.)
I have always related to the song, “180 lbs.” by Atom & His Package (see below for the lyrics), because I have this obsession with music, but there seems almost no real way of objectively judging the quality of my “taste.” I recently made fun of a co-worker of mine for liking Oasis, not at all remembering the 500 records I own that are much, much worse than anything they’ve recorded. (Styx? Rush? King Crimson albums after “In The Court Of The Crimson King”? ELO? The Band!?! Need I say more?)
I like a lot of shitty music, but I think it is finally time to own up. Absolute, utter tripe, and I love it. (Ahem, Ke$ha.) We all do, and I think we would all be much better off if we stopped trying to one-up each other when it comes to records. I’ll admit that I am guilty of it constantly. But there is something more impressive about admitting bad taste, and I’d like to get to that point. This isn’t to say that I don’t like good music either, and you will find a healthy dose of Miles Davis, Dead Kennedys, Acid Mothers Temple, and most everything by Johnathan Richman. But they’re often filed next to terrible ’80’s compilations, ensemble recordings of musicals that not even gay men will listen to, and a selection of absolutely Earl-awful 45s by bands named “Chicano-Christ” and “Boba Fett Youth.” Someone has got to draw the line somewhere, right?
Or, perhaps not. Perhaps the point is to embrace these absurdities, and finally admit to myself that it’s only music, and move on. Yes, I know there are very few reasons to own any Springsteen album after the first three or four. But someday I would like to live in a world where I can, publicly, stand up and say, “I own the complete works of The Moody Blues, and I don’t care who knows about it,” and not feel like a complete and utter tit.
…and with that, I have now alienated 2/3s of my readers. Until next time…
180 Lbs :
I own the worst records, of all time.
I got ’em stored on a Ikea shelf of mine.
They make me laugh.
They make me cry.
For owning the Voice of the Voiceless,
I deserve to die.
Why do I own Fireparty?
The last Dag Nasty CD?
The 1st Snapcase 7″,
or anything by F.Y.P.?
I own S.N.F.U. and fucking Pennywise.
Oh my god, what is wrong with me?
I got a bad curse that follows me.
It makes me purchase the worst records produced in history.
I’ve sworn off buying records, after this one I’m done.
I buy 15 bad records to every good one.