anywhereisbetter

Just a few years ago, I lived in a giant warehouse space full of toys in Red Hook. Big screen TV, Xbox, foosball table, it was the “Gentleman’s Recreational Quarters,” as one friend put it. Late nights at the bar turned into raucous early mornings singing karaoke through our makeshift PA system, and it was not unheard of to have Pringles and a milkshake for dinner. My favorite bands were the Minutemen, Rocket from the Crypt, Fugazi, and Supergrass.

Today, at 28 years old, I live in Park Slope, and my favorite bar is anywhere with available seating and good music at a “reasonable” volume. Though I cling desperately to my youth–dinner on Thursday consisted of banana bread, a root beer float, and a high-five for acting like we’re 14–it seems that my psyche has finally begun to show signs of aging. This became evident yesterday morning, as my roommate JR and I sat at the kitchen table preparing to cook brunch. I scrolled through the songs on my iTunes, searching for good Sunday morning music, and settled on Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle and Sebastian.

Belle and Sebastian? Not two years ago, I hated this band with the fire of a thousand burning suns. I lambasted their wimpy vocals. I found their soft-rock leanings detestable. I even disliked the name. I dreamt of the day when a real band like Social Distortion or The Dropkick Murphys would come along and kick their asses. I hated them.

They were hardly the only object of my contempt. There were many others—legions of bands, all eager to share with me how simply crestfallen they feel. But generally speaking, if they weren’t angry about something that mattered (and unless you’re Otis Redding, a broken heart does not count), I wasn’t interested. Then out of nowhere, as if a switch flipped somewhere inside of me, Belle and Sebastian started to sound like good music to chop an onion by.

A few seconds into the song, JR, who used to sing in punk rock bands with such manly names as “Blacklist” and “The Volts,” mentioned casually how he’d been listening to this album a lot lately. We both paused for a moment, thinking the same thing: What’s happening to us?

What’s happening, it seems, is that we’ve both fallen victim to College Radio’s older, wiser, softer sibling, Adult Alternative. I guess it was bound to happen. I took a moment to catalog the other bands that fall into this genre of Bands-I-Used-to-Hate-but-Now-I-Like. Belle and Sebastian aren’t the only ones: Yo La Tengo, Old 97′s, and Elliott Smith are just a few others. The list continues, but I refuse to embarrass myself further. I’ve swallowed enough pride already.

A bigger man might admit that he was wrong all of those years. He might submit to the fact that his musical tastes were somewhat narrow, that perhaps limiting oneself to a steady diet of punk rock and soul (with a little room for Bossa Nova and French Pop) might mean missing out on some good music. A bigger man most certainly would do these things. I am not that man.

You see, I wasn’t wrong, per se; I was just… young. Way back then, at the tender age of 25, I simply hadn’t settled down into the life of an Adult Alternative aficionado. How could I appreciate acoustic guitars and softly sung lyrics that weren’t about socialism? I wanted to rock, and Wilco simply didn’t do the trick. Besides, Alt Country is for old people.

Now, as I sit on the stoop of our brownstone, sipping on organic Pinot Grigio and watching the parade of strollers pass by, I can admit it: I’m getting old. And when you’re old, it’s okay to like old people music. I’m liberated. So let’s get ready to party–grab a bottle of wine, put on your favorite Camera Obscura record, and we’ll tap our toes quietly to the beat while reminiscing about the good old days—days when going dancing on a weekday didn’t sound like crazy talk, and we still had the strength to stand long enough to watch even the opening bands at a live show.