So, yeah, I’m a little … blocked.
I increasingly feel futile writing about the music I know best, because I’ve become more cognizant of the thousands of people doing the same thing.
I think that, within a few more years’ time, there will exist a MOJO magazine spread or a fancy e-book dedicated to literally every album released between 1967 and 1982, complete with behind-the-scenes pix and reminiscences from the studio engineers.
I have neither the resources nor the inclination to sift through all that material. But not reading it makes anything I have to say on the subject seem futile, since I don’t know All The Facts, and my own observations or additions feel paltry.
I tend to revel in my distance from the performer. I like to write stuff that asks questions like, “I wonder why they sequenced the album that way?”
I don’t need to have somebody leave me a comment saying, “Page 112 of the August ’11 MOJO says they sequenced the album by taping the song titles to the backs of turtles and having them race across the studio parking lot.” That destroys the mystique.
That conundrum would suggest I focus more on my local music reviews. Damn near nobody writes those around here, it seems.
Those are starting to feel formulaic, maybe because a lot of local musicians seem to hew to a handful of sounds and styles. There are only so many ways to describe hardcore metal or a guy in his bedroom with an acoustic guitar singing a song about Cocoa Puffs.
That leaves diddley bow videos … but I don’t think the first-take, so-bad-it’s-good vibe I put into them really comes through on the other side of the screen.
So, I’m gonna have to find something to put in this space. (Or not, I guess.)
But on this particular Friday night, I don’t know what it is.