It just doesn’t process music the way a 15-year old one does. The latter hears a tune and it instantly experiences ecstasy. And maybe that 15-year old’s life is transformed. And then it happens again the next day.
This is because - as we say - their brains are like sponges. Brand new, right out of the package ones, mind you. But they’re always ready to soak it all up.
The 62-year old brain, however, is that sponge over there by your kitchen sink which you've been meaning to replace because it's been there for months and has those stains and hard brown edges. It’ll work, but you’ve got to run it under the tap for a minute or two to loosen it up.
Which is my way of saying I don’t know what I think of some records until I’ve listened to them for weeks, or even months. I guess it’s my version of running the tap.
Take this record:
Soccer Mommy: Clean (2018)
I was struggling with it because here is yet another example of the female indie rock singer-guitarist with less than upbeat songs.
At first, I didn’t care for it. It resembled Snail Mail, which I liked a lot because it was sad but sweet. This one is simultaneously more commercial and yet stranger and darker (people eating each other, or treating them like dogs, etc.)
But now, after these few months, I can say it’s also more subtle and varied than SN. And my official verdict is Almost Just Not Quite But Really Almost Just As Good.
And Snail Mail - for all her heart - doesn’t come up with a winner like “Last Girl”.
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“Last Girl”
Or this one:
Father John Misty: I Love You Honeybear (2010)
I held off a long time before getting anything by FJM. I felt I’d given the guys enough opportunities over the years. And the chances of another young man having enough talent and wisdom without ruining it with some bullshit seemed kind of low.
But I saw it for a good price at Barnes and Noble and said what the hell.
First impressions:
- Not-lame tunes
- Not overwrought
- Not (too) nasty.
Well, there’s that lovely tenor, which could easily be misused, but isn’t here. So putting the record on was a not-unpleasant experience. (At this point, one could reasonably ask, Jaybee, do you even like music? Do you hate men? The answers are yes, but not as much as when I was 15, and all too many.
Now, after a couple of months of putting it on regularly, I put it on again. And every single song has something to offer. And sometimes more than one thing.
I think it may have moved into the Active Pleasure phase. How rare!
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Christ, when did music get to be so much work?
