There are certain pleasures to becoming an old fart.
When I was younger, for example, it was important to be sniffy about music: to hate country music, for example, or to repudiate all hard rock once I became enamored of punk.
I wasn’t wrong, back in the day. Getting all wrought-up about music and books and poetry and politics was crucial to the development of my tastes, and helped me to figure out what and why I liked what I liked, and what these songs and poems and stories meant to me.
I’m a dialectical kinda gal, learning through contrast and movement, so it makes sense both that I embraced a THIS-NOT-THAT sensibility toward music (love rock, hate rock), and then a yeah-it’s-all-right reconsideration.
No, I ain’t running out to pick up any Foreigner records, but I no longer feel the need to reject all that my teenaged self loved.
And so, this:
My sister had Dreamboat Annie, which I thought was the bee’s knees, and Zeppelin, well hell, Zeppelin. Then I Developed Taste, and even if I couldn’t sneer quite as completely at Zeppelin as I did at Heart, well, I couldn’t really listen to them.
Now, though, those taste buds are tired of rejecting tasty bits just because it’s what I’m supposed to do.
Fuck what I’m supposed to do. This is a damned fine rendition of a classic—if you’re going to use a chorus in a rock song, this is how you use a chorus in a rock song—and I happily popped this up to full screen to watch and listen.
And you, if you’re sneering? You wish you could sing like (D’oh!) Nancy Ann Wilson.
~~~
h/t Bluegal aka Fran at Crooks & Liars
AbsurdBeats 