call me music,â I belted. âNot meant to!â
But the cool bald guy smiled. He chuckled even. And then he summoned me over. âHey, kid,â he said. âI got something you should check out.â
I swear, it felt like my balls crawled up inside my body cavity. I was elated and scared shitless all at once.
He brought me over to the checkout table and reached over to a box of new arrivals. He pulled out a Pixies import called
Into the White
. It was a collection of BBC recordings, nothing Iâd ever heard of, or would ever consider buying. Certainly not with a $50 price tag. But the cool bald guy with the trash can earlobes had deemed me worthy. What was I gonna say: âMy grandma just loaned me $50 to help pay my rent; I really shouldnât be spending it on Pixies songs I already own that have just been rerecorded for a British radio showâ?
Iâm not sure what I was expecting to happen after this transaction. Actually, no, thatâs not true. I knew what I hoped would happen. I hoped heâd invite me back to his apartment, where all the cool kids would be hanging out, doing drugs from elaborate contraptions that looked like hookahs, having friendly debates about their favorite
Ben Is Dead
issues or
Simpsons
episodes or Hal Hartley movies. And then weâd listen to the Pixies, and heâd blare âDebaserâ from big black speakers hung from ceiling chains, and Iâd nod with a wry smile, because I appreciated the songâs subversiveness, and it didnât in any way scare the living bejesus out of me and make mewant to drive home to my parentsâ house in the suburbs and hide in my old bedroom and listen to Billy Joelâs âKeeping the Faithâ over and over.
None of that happened. After I bought the Pixies import, I went back to the Chicago apartment I shared with four roommates, slipped it into the wood crate with all the other overpriced imports and bootlegs I didnât listen to, and immediately called my grandma to ask for another fifty dollars.
Here I was, twenty years later, just as insecure and hungry for approval. The girl with the Cramps shirt kept popping grapes into her mouth.
It was hard for me not to stare. I missed this as much as my record collection. I missed the experience of being in a place like this, a place that sold objects containing music, which provided reasonsâperfectly justifiable reasonsâfor you to talk with hot women, their hair streaked with pink highlights and their mouths brandishing lip rings, who know fascinating minutiae about music I never knew existed but that would soon change my life.
âAre you looking for anything in particular?â she asked.
I guess the answer is I want the old thrill back, the adrenaline rush of hunting for music the way itâs supposed to be hunted for.
Iâm an iTunes customer, and itâs great. It makes everything easier. When I find out that one of my favorite bands is putting out a new album, I just give iTunes my credit card information, and on the release date they automatically download it onto my iPod, like a spouse surprising you with breakfast in bed on your birthday. Except itâs not a surprise at all, because itâs your birthday, and you kinda knew it was coming, and later that night youâll be having sex thatâs mildly dirty, not because itâs spontaneous and creative but because thatâs the mutual understanding that comes with an enduring relationship, whether itâs between two mostly loveless lifecompanions or a customer and his or her iTunes account. The seduction is gone, but youâll get what you want if you just wait long enough.
Music shouldnât feel like date-night sex. It should be dangerous. Legitimately dangerous. And it used to be. There was a time when the mere act of owning a record could put you in physical peril.
When I was a teenager, I was thrilled by rumors that if you played âStairway