The title of this blog is derived shamelessly stolen from a song title by a British band named Broadcast, whom I fell for in the summer of 2002. Shortly after I graduated from high school, several internet-buddies and I, having met on a forum and discovered a tentatively mutual taste in tunes, set up an FTP and began trading music.
...let's rewind, though. To the first time a song hit me so hard, everything I was before that moment suffered a mortal wound. If this melodrama hasn't alerted you to it already, it happened during my teenage years: an era of malignant tedium, gratefully punctuated by moments such as these:
It is sophomore year. I've been collecting vinyl for a while now, discovering it as both an affordable and rewarding hobby. Access to eBay and the East Village, and armed with nearly indiscriminate taste, made this materialistic fetishization of my forefathers' (well, fathers') past a particularly easy task. “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” original cast recording for six fifty? Sure, I'll take that off your hands. An assorted lot of beaten Beatles albums I've heard of in passing? Why not! I made my money compiling, editing and typing my mother's graduate school homework, and being an IRC- and MUD-addicted shut-in, I had nothing better to spend my it on than relics. Her ex-boyfriend's stereo system (a record player sitting atop a radio and tape deck,) warbled out Pinball Wizard and the I-Feel-Like-I'm-Fixin'-To-Die Rag at an average of thirty-three-and-a-third RPM (accounting for the disk's glacially-raised, millimeteric hills and valleys.) Perhaps two out of any of the four speakers would be working at a time, with even money on the fact that I was listening to only the left or right side of a stereophonic recording. I'd hardly ever notice, outside of, for instance, the tomfoolery on Yellow Submarine, which I could've sworn had singing the last time I played it, and would have had at the moment, were the speaker set-up wired by someone who knew what he was doing, rather than trying his best to simultaneously tie together wires and not fall from a shaky and, more importantly, wheeled office chair.
I've sidetracked myself.
It is the Spring of 2000. I am lollygagging about the East Village, wasting time in my favorite music shop with an 88 cent CD rack: St. Mark's Sounds. I'm with an old friend and his girlfriend. Inspiration drives me to the new vinyl section; I'd never before bought an new record. Perhaps it was spending the day reminded of my ongoing datelessness that made me crave something of my own and a new record would have to do. However, I didn't want the usual: a circa-1985 reprint of Dark Side of the Moon, sold off with everything else to make room for the new baby. It was a brand new album I was after.. An artifact not aged by someone else's time and, having worn out it's welcome, put on the path of least monetary resistance toward me. Well, what do you know, there it is: pristine and shrink-wrapped, unstained, uncreased shiny white with a big ole yellow banana on the cover: The Velvet Underground and Nico. I am sixteen; I've heard of them. My friend's ex-punk girlfriend vouches for group (the absurdity of her self-declared position within the counterculture was wholly lost on me.) I take the album home. I get the shrink wrap off, admire the sheer newness and slide out the record.
Holy shit. It's orange.
(Thanks to appleshampoo64 on Photobucket)