Hi. I'm New.

Hi. I'm new. And really awkward. Um... musically, I mean.

Ok. I'm socially awkward as well... blame it on being an only child with nothing but a cornfield to play with.

But that's not the point.

All of my friends listen to "skinny-white-dude-so-hip-it-hurts" indie rock. Don't get me wrong, that is a majority of what I listen to too. But lately I've noticed that it's been a game to see who can find the most obscure, gritty, tragically hip band and claim it as their own.

I suck at games.

I've traversed through the rugged terrain of Pitchfork and Day Trotter trying to reign victorious, but the coolest thing I can find is Arcade Fire and apparently they've been around for a while. (That was a joke... get it? 'Cause they're... Ugh. I told you I was awkward.) So this is me giving up. My white flag is waving sheepishly and I am finally embracing how uncool my musical tastes really are.

I love Barbra Streisand.

Wow, it feels really good to say that.

I own my fair share of Babs' albums. (Color Me Barbra is my favorite) I know every word to every song in Funny Girl and yes, I sing it in the shower. There is really not much else to say about my obsession, except zomgiloveyoubarbra! But no seriously. She's like butta.

Why did that have to be so embarrassing? Is it any worse than admitting you love auto tune and Kenny Chesney? No, not really. In fact, admitting you like a raisin in a cowboy hat is a little harder to explain than Barbra. (Let me tell you, my entire high school woulda had lots of esplainin' to do! (Because I lived in the country and that's what everyone listens to. Sad, I know.))

So what if my 50 year old aunt owns the same albums as me. It's not going to "Rain On My Parade!" (It's a popular Streisand song, you wouldn't understand.)

More on my awkward musical obsessions to come.

But first, I must find my collector's addition of My Name Is Barbra.

I'm going to blast it with my windows open.

Reluctant Ambition

You may be astonished to learn that I am not always the straightlaced, button down wearing go-getter whose image I certainly project.*  Sometimes I get distracted from homework because of the toys (ex:  Yo Gabba Gabba) in my room, and sometimes, very occasionally, I watch television.  How could I stay away from a show titled "Killing for a Living?"**

In order to better sustain this beloved blog and protect its vitality from my lapses in productivity, I hereby assign myself a sort-of-project.  In addition to weekly posts on whatever musical thing strikes my fancy, I'll be posting regularly about two or three listening experiences.  These expeditions into music history will be randomly selected from my new book, 1,000 Recordings To Hear Before You Die.  If all goes well and dilligence prevails, this should be a fun way to, sigh, better myself. 

Wish me luck, or do me one better and cut my cable connection.

* I hope this is correctly interpreted as somewhat sarcastic.
**Don't get too excited; it's about lizards and tigers and other bitey creatures.  

Serenade Me, Mr. Cox

Wexner’s black box, the area behind Mershon’s thick curtain, was filled once again by indie music devotees of all ages on Sunday night. The masses were drawn this time by the lanky and amiable presence of Bradford Cox, the frontman of four-piece group Deerhunter. However, Cox is currently touring as his solo act, Atlas Sound, which recently released its second LP, Logos.

At our show, Cox was not dressed like this...too bad.

The Selmanaires opened with a less than inspiring and almost less than listenable set. Their whiny electronic (i.e., they had a keyboard) rock and the singer’s spontaneous arm flailing failed to please anyone in the audience; the Atlanta based band probably hopped the train that was carrying Cox out of Georgia and used the time to lazily write one song they could repeat for half an hour when “performing.”

No sitting for us!

Electronic, pseudo-psychedelic pop duo Broadcast came next. I must give them credit for persistence; there was time on stage to fill, and dagnabit, they were going to make noise the entire time! They never stopped playing, and Trish’s eerie monotone vocals were evenly matched by the video projected over and behind her. Although a disgustingly artsy video, a mixture of black & white tree limbs competing with neon color patterns, I believe that no concept is more acceptable than a bad, pretentious concept.

Broadcast's spooky Trish Keenan and compliant James Cargill.

Unfortunately for the eager audience and for Bradford, The Selmanaires were his backing band. Their paltry talent prevented Bradford from completely bringing his pieces to life. I can’t say I ever completely lost myself in the music. Regardless, it was pacifying to hear Logo’s more upbeat pieces, like Sheila and Walkabout, played hesitantly with a reassuring serenity. Bradford himself was utterly charming, the kind of guy you’d want at your parties or with you at the laundromat, and the show was redeemed by his enchanting solo encore. With a harmonica resting around his neck, and an acoustic guitar comfortable under his elongated fingers, he played a haunting but warm version of Quarantined, showcasing the fantastic voice he buries under production on records.

Though it wasn’t a mind-blowing show, I walked away from the Wexner as I almost always do: contented.

Bradford, you're a card.