As a pseudo-hipster, I find myself quite interested in vinyl. I like the sound of it, and I like the tactile feel of actually putting on a record, as opposed to just loading up a playlist on my computer. But I believe I've mentioned this before.
I think what I love the most, though, is the collecting part of the equation - particularly browsing through old thrift stores that smell like mothballs and people of wal-mart, searching for fifty-cent albums worth listening to. While I love picking up albums I love (such as Steely Dan or Three Dog Night), I also love picking up albums that I would never normally buy. But pick up anyway, because "hey, fifty cents".
Because of this, I now own albums by ABBA, KC and the Sunshine Band, even goddamn Billy Joel. Either this incredibly tacky and awful collection of bad music makes me less of a music nerd... or more of one. I'm not entirely sure which.
I am sure, on the other hand, that my tastes have done a complete one eighty since my younger days, when I was an angry little metalhead. I have a strong feeling that if teenage Dave saw his future self in possession of Meat Loaf's Bat Out of Hell, he would have exploded. There's about a thirty eight percent chance* that the explosion would kill us all.
Anyways, I was listening to some of the spur of the moment purchases, and really giving some of the terrible ones the Mystery Science Theatre treatment. "Who in the hell finds Cheech and Chong funny!? Oh, yeah, right... Stoners."
Then I threw on Joni Mitchell's Clouds, and found myself transfixed by calm acoustic lines and a folksy melodic voice. It was an album I'd never heard before, and within minutes, I was hypnotized by the whole thing.
I snapped out of it when my living room filled with the smell of brimstone. Next thing I knew, there was an angry ginger Devil sitting on my couch. His arms were crossed, and he was pissed. It took me a minute to realize that I was actually staring at myself - from the past!
Judging by the torn System of a Down hoodie and the sony discman in his (my?) cargo shorts side pocket, it was Dave, circa 2000. He wore a necklace made of copper wire that I knew he had made in the back of his electronics class. His glasses were falling apart, and he had a perpetual sneer on his face.
"What the fuck is this shit!?" He said, angrily waving his arms in the air. As he did so, he spilled some diet coke absently. "I can't believe I'm going to grow up and start liking hippie music!"
I stared back at him, perplexed.
"And look at you! You're wearing plaid! And jeans - jeans, man! Like a fucking sellout! And a hockey hat? Since when did you become like everyone else and start liking hockey!? And the Sharks, at that! They're, like, a brand new team! I can't believe I grow up to be such a tool!"
He was furious. I was flat footed for a few seconds. And then I burst out laughing. "Whatever, dude. You listen to Slipknot. Therefore, you have no say in this."
And, just like that, my living room was empty once more. Joni Mitchell sang on, and all was well with the world.
* (only two people in the world get this reference. I hope the one that isn't me thinks the reference is as funny as I do)