Did your town not matter, you thought? Did it not contain real people
living real lives and needing real music? Was indie rock the only zone
in which people would tolerate this slummy shit? Could Les Mis tour with five people wearing Dockers, accompanied by a jambox, and still call the show Les Mis? You thought of the passage from Curtis White's novel Memories of My Father Watching TV,
about what his family would settle for: "They'd eat the most
unbelievable junk…the cheapest margarine you can imagine...it came in
gallon tubs…the manufacturer didn't even have the decency to dye it
yellow. It wasn't something to eat; it was a expression of contempt."
For some reason, you felt as if someone (everyone?) was getting a treat
and being swindled at the same time.
Happy new year everybody. I'm back and blogging and whatnot.
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