Musical Musings, Supplemental.

See? Two for the price of one, to make up for my absenteeism. (Gods, that’s a fun word) Don’t say I never do anything for you, loyal reader. And I know you’re loyal, for why else would you still be reading this, the product of my brain-farts?

To fully understand my reasoning behind this blog, I must first relate a short story to you. It starts, as all good stories do, with drinking. After I had returned from my previous trip to America, I was sitting in a pub with my friend Helen, having a couple of beers and generally catching up. After a couple of pints, we were both feeling borderline tipsy, which when we two are together, can be a dangerous combination- once, we ended up planning a trans-America motorbike trip while we were in this state, which should give some idea of what we’re like. Anyway, on this occasion, our madness was fairly restrained, and we stuck to philosophical discussions. A few days before, I’d attended a Decemberists concert, and I was having fun articulately describing to Helen the pure sense of fun derived from that experience. This, dear reader, brought us onto a topic that now makes its way to this blog- is live music the entire point of music?

A stupid question, you might say. Certainly, live music is fun sometimes, but in cases of a band phoning it in, just there for the money, the negative experience derived from that could put one off concerts for good. Not to mention, live music is hardly practical all the time- part of the joy of music is to be able to pop on a CD at home, or to listen to your iPod while on the bus. Hell, even listening to it in your head when you’ve nothing else to listen on is great.

Yes, that’s all fine, I admit. Everyday music like that is convenient, but it’s hardly an immersive experience, that is, unless you’re a teenage Goth, listening to death metal in your black-coloured bedroom that hasn’t seen the sun in years. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, you guys are living the dream) But there’s something special about getting into costume (putting on your ‘gig outfit’- I know I have one) going out, and losing yourself in pure sound. Sure, there are a lot of bum bands out there- I only have to mention Towers of London, All-American Rejects (worst live band 2006) or, to a certain friend, The Man That Can’t Be Hanged to elicit shudders and Freudian repression. These people were either under false impressions of their own greatness or in it for the moolah. But, let me give you another example.

Last Thursday, I went out to see Motion City Soundtrack at one of the local venues. If you’ve read the first few chapters of my book, the Notes (shameless self promotion for the win!) you know that I have a very high opinion of these guys already. However, at the time, it was the 2nd support band that really impressed me. Despite the idiots throwing water over each other (ah, to be young again) I was able to stand there, eyes closed, letting the waves of sound crash over me in perfect contentment. If there’s one thing that chilled emo is good for, it’s, well, chilling. (I found out later that this band was Straylight Run, which most of you have probably never heard of. Go and listen to ‘Existentialism on Prom Night’ for starters.)

That’s why live music is so great. Unless you’ve a truly awesome hi-fi system, you can’t achieve the same effect of feeling the music around you, every chord, or crash of stick against drum. You can lose yourself for an evening; throw yourself into the pit with no thoughts of anything other than the rhythm and the bodies around you. It’s a special experience, and one that is, at least in my opinion, the reason we have music in the first place.

Anyway, I’ve yapped enough, over to you.

Tom

Bright Young Thing

Again, apologies for the delay in updates. I don’t really have an excuse, but since the majority of you are my friends, you understand how I do many things on a whim. So, please forgive me, and I make no promises about the timing of future updates. They’ll happen at the opportune moment.

In any case, time to get on with the show. A few weeks ago, an auspicious event occurred. That’s right, I, your dear author and favourite spleen-venter, turned 21. I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

Yup. I’m officially an adult. How weird is that? Now, granted, the friends I was with did a great job of not making me feel like an old fogey, partly because they’re all older than me, and partly because they got me ice cream cake (yay!). I’m usually not much for cake, but when it’s made from ice creamy goodness, I can definitely go for that.

Still, I digress. The point of this entry is for me to take stock of my life a little as I pass this important landmark. Your purpose in this is twofold: both to critique my ramblings, as ever, and, if you’re lucky enough to be younger than me, to mock my advanced years. I hear that’s what all the cool kids are doing these days.

So, important things that have changed now I’m 21:

I can now no longer say that I haven’t thrown up due to alcohol. On a related note, I can also no longer say that my friends haven’t seen me practically naked while I was passed out. It’s a long story.

The ‘songs I can no longer sing’ list has increased to include the Swiss Army Romance by Dashboard Confessional, for the ‘we’re not 21’ line. However, I am yet another year closer to being able to sing ‘What’s My Age Again?’ and mean it.

I now appreciate Blink 182 for their knack of writing good pop, rather than their immature antics. I also now appreciate Avril Lavigne for blatantly phoning it in, rather than completely for her looks.

I’m now terrified of flying, at least going to America. Strangely, on the way back, I couldn’t care less about dying.

All my housemates are again a year younger than me. This means that I have to put up with endless ‘granddad’ cracks. On the bright side, I can now get into the over 21 bars here. All one of them. It’s hardly worth being 21 on this damned continent.

My musical tastes are broadening, which means that my ‘I hate the bands that you like’ T-shirt is in increasing danger of being untrue.

Oh, and finally, not to do with me, but a further sign of the Apocalypse (if one was required beyond me surviving to maturity): Miranda now likes Fall Out Boy. Unfortunately, this means that one of my main avenues of getting under her skin has disappeared.

Anyway, I’ll stop rambling. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last week or so, but I won’t share. Besides, most of it was bolstering up my self-esteem after spending a week with the ‘constant source of introspection and ego-crippling’.
Peace out.