A Musical Recantation

In the last four years I would like to think that I have become a connoisseur of tasty music. Music is a tricky thing - it mingles the best and worst that pop culture has to offer. For instance, best = lyrical genius of Over the Rhine/Joni Mitchell, melodious stylings of Jason Mraz and prophetic kick-ass rock of U2, worst = most of Stacy Ferguson's solo jams, mind-numbing slam metal, and the production, consumption and representation of anything remotely connected to Popozao.

I love being a part of the musical elite. I think this is because I spent most of my young life being musically illiterate - I once traded by oh-so-hip-sister a Beatles album for a Debbie Gibson tape... ouch. It wasn't until late high school with the charisma of Bono and slurred jams of DMB that I awoke. Then it took years of listening and gentle guidance to become an elitist. Still, many years later I continue to owe most of my iTunes library to the great gifting of those music snobs, who taught my heart to palpitate upon the utterance of the phrase 'So, have you heard ____?' To keep up my musical education I even subscribe the to very witty and increasingly racy music magazine Blender. (Word to the Wise: do not, I repeat, DO NOT have your shady magazines forwarded to your husband's honest lovely innocent agrarian parent's home in California (see cover of Ms. Aguilera)... shame only scratches the surface of my experience when receiving this issue in Massachusetts with my father-in-law's handwritten address correction).

All that to say that today I must retract all previous claims to musical superiority.I am a fake, a fraud, a disgrace - I broke the cardinal rule of music connoisseurs - I self-reflected. And now all that is left is a shell of a previous musical elitist. I have realized the great folly at my assumptions to know better than the general listener. I have fallen, like many, into a common trap of the musically conscious: I have come to assume that things that are mass produced have been tainted by "the man", which renders them to be nothing less than an abomination to my ears. One such artist has become prey to my haughty and unconscionable preconceptions: Mr. Michael Buble. I assumed that his mommy demographic, Sinatra-wanna-be ways and bubble-sounding surname constituted a singer who's art was beneath me. Friends, I was wrong - he is a crooning delight. I wish I could pass my apologies along to Mr. Buble. My mockery of him while viewing his cameo on Brett and my favorite t.v. guilty pleasure Las Vegas lead me down a path that ended with the purchase of his Holiday Let It Snow EP. (understand that I recognize that the previous sentence was filled with many mock worthy confessions 1. I watch Las Vegas often and regularly, 2. Said NBC drama lead me to sample cameo stars' on iTunes, 3. I purchased a Holiday CD months before Christmas and intended to begin listening stat).

The Aesop message for other elitists is this: don't listen to me when I mock mainstream artists and do not fall victim of the same prejudiciary predisposition. Also, listen to Michael Buble when taking long baths, making out with boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife, enjoying yuletide cheer, and sucker-punching yourself for being close minded.


I plan to begin a new chapter in my musical education. I intend to be open and gracious and picky. To honestly and earnestly assess the notes and lyrics that pass my way, taking the indie-folk-rock with the buttery-glossy-pop - without unnecessary meanness or prejudice. I will listen until my eyes bleed, this I promise.

Sorry K-Fed - you're still out,
Erin