There is a list tacked to the bulletin board in my kitchen with names of contemporary artists and bands that are probably fantastic. I say “probably” because I haven’t listened to them yet.
Our babysitter, Abby—it’s strange to use the word “babysitter” because she is more friend and family at this point—made the list for me about a month ago. Okay, maybe two.
“Have you listened to any of the music yet?” She recently asked.
“No,” I confessed. “I will. Soon. Soon!”
Soon? Why did I sound like I was being asked, around the first of April, if I had finished my taxes? Since when did listening to new music become a chore?
Music has been a passion of mine for as long as I can remember. It started with 45 records and an FM radio, progressing through boom boxes and mix tapes, all the way to CDs and playlists. I have camped out for concert tickets; spent three days in a muddy tent at several music festivals, sans running water, and living on oatmeal crème pies, just to see the likes of Bjork, Green Day, Hole, the Indigo Girls, Soundgarden, Weezer, Oasis, Pulp, Belly, The Dave Matthews Band, and the Cure. Instead of passionately pursuing a career or a calling with great zeal, I spent my early twenties accruing a stack of ticket stubs and concert t-shirts. With great zeal.
I always vowed that as I got older I would not become one of those people who only listens to music from their youth. I have spent much of my adult life teaching college students, and this has helped. Artists like Cat Power, Phish, Regina Spektor, and The Dropkick Murphys found their way to me mostly because of students.
It also helps to have that one friend who has remained fantastically plugged in to all things hip, who lives in a university town, and who sends you the occasional mix and playlist. You know this friend; she is the smart and artsy one with the most effortlessly cool glasses and the best shoes, the friend who can actually pull off the leopard-print haircalf flats (Julie of Wisconsin, I’m looking at you, and thanks again for The White Stripes and Neko Case). In recent years, Abby has helped, too. Or at least she has tried.
This summer, though, I realized that despite my best intentions, all the “new” bands I listen to—Spoon, The Avett Brothers, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, St. Vincent, Alabama Shakes—aren’t new anymore.
So I asked Abby for the list. She was happy to oblige. But I still haven’t listened to anything on it.
I did, however, attend two live shows this summer: U2’s The Joshua Tree anniversary tour and Billy Joel, performing his greatest hits. Both were fantastic. The fact that these were my two concert choices, though, only exacerbated my concern that I had let myself grow out of touch.
Sidebar: My husband and I like to play a game called “Have you ever heard of this band?” when we watch Saturday Night Live these days. Good times.
As I stood there listening to Billy Joel play “Still Rock and Roll to Me,” I thought of Abby’s list. I promise I’ll listen to it, I thought. I really will.
But. U2’s The Joshua Tree, for Pete’s sake. Billy Joel in center field at Wrigley at a grand piano singing “The Piano Man.”
These are good things in this world. Good then, good now.
Meanwhile, that list is still tacked to my bulletin board, still untouched. That’s okay. I’ll get to it. Soon.
