A Crash Test Entry

Please pardon this latest pause in the action. I’m recovering from a nasty winter flu at the moment, finally upright at my keyboard again after several days in bed. Writing is a sure sign of recuperation, I think. Hopefully by week’s end, I’ll lose this cloud of cough-drop vapor that’s been hovering around my head and obscuring my thoughts.

For better or worse, many of my thoughts lately have circled this new blog. Bluebird Street. I’m proud of it so far, though I’m not sure I’ve set myself upon the path I intended to follow. I wanted to create a place where I could come and, you know, just GEEK OUT on records, songs, albums and artists I admire. I cannot even listen to my iPod anymore without compiling notes in my head about what I’m hearing; the exact words I’ll use to reveal the brilliance of a track and stir a reader’s curiosity about it. Had I written these thoughts down, I’d be much further along than I am now — but even if I did, why would anybody care?

In a digital universe where “music blogs” and “music sites” are literally everywhere, who’s gonna care what I say? And why should they? Thousands of similar bloggers are already light years ahead of me, and yet, it is still rather the exception (and not the norm) that people come to new and exciting music through internet blogs. I’d wager that most of us are resistant to new music. We go through life sort of allowing songs to attach themselves to us, by accident, by association or through sheer osmosis. This is why record companies used to (or maybe still do) value airplay so much. The more ubiquitous a song can be, the more likely it is to become a hit. Which, of course, makes the song even more inescapable.

We are used to developing our musical tastes this way, I guess. I mean, in late 1992 and early 1993, you were either going to love Whitney Houston’s remake of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” or you were going to hate it. There was no way in hell you were going to escape that song, because it was everywhere. If you don’t want to go out and find good music, then lay back and the corporate media will spoon feed it to you. If you like it, great. If you don’t, there’ll be another movie soundtrack blockbuster along shortly, so sit tight. You get the idea.

Ever made friends with somebody who just had to pawn their music off on you? I bet you have. And have you ever just KNEW you’d hate your friend’s music? Even before you heard it? Here’s a quick true story: In the summer of 1993, I took a three-hour car ride with a beautiful girl, a coworker who I had a serious crush on. Though I was attached at the time (soon to be married, in fact), I couldn’t wait to get to know this girl better, so I jumped at the chance to carpool with her to a sales seminar. Just as we were hitting the expressway, she goes, “How about we crank some tunes?” Wow, I thought. Hell, yes, let’s rock. So she reaches under her car seat and produces a Crash Test Dummies CD, the one with that annoying “Mmmm, Mmmm, Mmmm, Mmmm” song on it.

Oh. You’re curious, are you? Here’s the video then, Mr. (or Miss) Short-Attention Span. Take a break and watch it, if you must.

Wait. Let me be fair. I could handle that song. I’d heard it often enough, seen the video about 400 times on MTV. Fine. Surely, she’d pop the disc out after that song was done, and she’d put in something cool. But no. As soon as “Mmmm, Mmmm” faded out, she turned to me, breathlessly enthused, and crowed “I LOVE this next song!” and turned it up even louder. And so it went, song after song, each and every one of them the same mid-tempo, crooning-frog downer as the last one. By the end of the CD, I had motion sickness from those queasy, croaked vocals blaring at me all day, and this beautiful woman, who I’d once framed in fantasy, suddenly became a person I wanted to avoid at all costs.

There were more CDs under her car seat. I didn’t want to know what they were.

The point of the story is this: I don’t want to be HER. I don’t want to be the closet nerd who won’t let go of your arm, who sprays spittle against your cheek while espousing the awesomeness of some band, or singer, that you wish would die in a fire. When I ask myself, “Why should anyone care what I like?” I think about that. I like Elliott Smith. Big deal, right? Up to now, maybe you’ve never even heard of him. Maybe you don’t even like the sound of his name. Maybe you’ve read enough here to decide that my taste is questionable, at best. It’s nothing personal. It happens.

This is why my site, Bluebird Street, will often read more like a sort of biography than a regular music blog. I realize I’m not an expert and I’m quite sure I’m not going to break any big music news here, or hook anyone into the latest buzz. I do love music, though. Naturally, I want to share some of my favorites with you. And, I have some personal stories to tell that are inextricably tied to certain songs or albums. One day, I’ll tell you my “Hey Jude” story, how it’s one of my favorite Beatles songs and yet, I haven’t been able to listen to it for the past 20 years.

Eventually, I hope to come to a better understanding of myself by writing this blog. Somehere down the road, these stories of my life might intertwine with song or album reviews I share. If I happen to make a connection with you at various points along the way, then none of this will be a waste.

I hope you’ll keep checking in. And if you like what you’re reading, tell your friends.

If you don’t like what you’re reading, then I hope the Crash Test Dummies will record their next album under your bed.

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