I seem to be slipping into old age. Think I'm losing touch with pop music, which is probably age-appropriate, but it hurts. Still, it happened before in the early 90s when I never really got grunge.
Location is something to do with it. Here in BKK, Coldplay is still pretty fucking radical. Yes I can download stuff, yes I can read about, yes, if the worst comes to the even worst I can get it delievered. But I still feel isolated. Last week I bumped into a Canadian Belle & Seb fan and nearly wept with relief. The irony is, Oasis and Franz Ferdinand and Placebo will be playing here next month - but I'll be in London, having just missed the Bonzos reunion there.
(On the subject of Oasis, I always thought they were overrated, but they did provide me with an epiphany of sorts. The only time I saw them live was the moment I realised that "alternative music" was dead. It was Knebworth, 1996, over 100,000 people, and my view was blocked by three of those people, all wearing matching cagoules proudly announcing their allegiance to the Crewe & Alsager College of HE Lacrosse Club.)
Another reason for my estrangement from happy happy sounds is that I've been doing much dull work, which means concentration, which means background music, which often means classical. Obvious bits, like Brandenburg 5 and Beethoven Choral, but also oddities, like some French Renaissance stuff performed by the Baltimore Consort, which is all lutes and citterns and viols and recorders and hey-nonny-nonny but without being loathesome, strangely. And from here, it's but a step to complaining when anything written later than 1600 turns up on Radio 3. Not to mention the current hullabaloo kicking off at Radio 4. Anarchy! Bolshevism! Matron!
Even the films I've been watching have been elderly. Sorry Wrong Number (Anatole Litvak, 1948) and The Thin Man (WS Van Dyke, 1936). The first is noiry, Barbara Stanwyck neurotically great, Burt Lancaster pretty wooden (he was better on a trapeze). The Thin Man, another one I thought I must have seen before, is as fab as the crits say, and pretty damn raunchy for the era. "He never got near my tabloids!"
Looking back over some earlier posts, I realise I never got round to writing about Authenticity by David Boyle. I now can't remember it, and can't find it. But I will do something about, because I can remember it annoyed me, although I don't know why.
Just take me out back and shoot me, yeah?