It's Not What You're Like, It's What You Like
by Kid Spill

In revered rock flick High Fidelity (which is actually not about music at all), sheepish record store lackey Dick wanders into main nerd Rob’s apartment as he is reorganizing his massive record collection.  Rob glares wildly at the errant stacks of albums and explains to Dick that he is ordering them autobiographically, putting together his life’s history with the medium that has defined his very existence.  Rob’s spaz-out reorganization acts as a commentary on his life, made from cardboard and vinyl.

And really, don’t all of our record collections do the same?  Regardless of how we stack our CDs, the collection itself is very much a reflection of where we’re at and where we’ve been.  Or who we thought we were.  Or who we wanted to be.  Or something.  It’s a little disconcerting, how much you can find out about a person by trolling through their CD shelves.  I never really look at my own, just throw in whatever I happen to have bought or burned, and dig through them when the urge to hear a certain something strikes me.  This all changed when I recently moved and thought it high time to clean out the stacked milk crates of CDs upon CDs upon CDs. Aside from the “main box,” which contains the day-to-day selections and recent purchases (The Phonemes, The Diskettes, Jon Rae and the River!), there were crates of musical debris, an accumulation of albums I have loved, but that don’t exactly make it into the rotation so much these days. The hour I spent alphabetizing (no complicated filing systems for this simple girl) was a bizarre and uncomfortable flashback: ten years worth of forged identities, forays into now unappealing genres, and embarrassing moments of British techno.

CDs I Inexplicably Bought As A Teenager:

Chantal Kreviazuk, Colour Moving and Still.  I may have actually already entered university at the time of this purchase. And you know, in my defense, I have not historically been a fan of such soppy musical stylings.  I cringe at the inferences that could be made of my ownership of this CD.  My head is hung in shame.

The Orb, U.F. Off.  Did I think I was a raver?  I’ve been to exactly one “party” (says my friend Bryan, a legitimate dance music guy: “No one who goes to raves calls them raves. They’re called ‘parties’”) ever in my life, and it was in someone’s house, not even a cavernous den of undulating oomphs and beeps.  While my high school best friend used a track off this album in her student council election assembly or some such nonsense, I doubt I listened to it more than three or four times.

Land Of Drummers, A Land of Drummers.  I truly wish fewer of my albums were influenced by crushes on boys.  I really do.  This one, while awesome and something I still listen to frequently, especially when smoking doobs at my parents’ house, was purchased because I fell in love with a beautiful blonde tennis-playing pothead, and needed something cool to play for when we drove around in my mom’s navy blue Toyota Corolla.

Why I Am So Compelled By Blue Rodeo…

…. remains a question.  Blue Rodeo are, to me, culturally akin to the overly earnest, boring-as-gravel bands that make up the dark side of Can Con (I’m looking at you, Tragically Hip and Cowboy Junkies) that are best to be avoided.  Yet, I love Blue Rodeo so much that they hold approximately five positions in my collection.  In the venerated “B” section, no less, home to Beastie Boys, Beatles, Bjork, Built to Spill, the Beta Band and Belle and Sebastian, among others.  My Blue Rodeo love can partially be attributed to my personal, slightly filthy love for a certain Mr. Greg Keelor, though I do feel that Jim Cuddy looks like an agreeable but aging Southern lesbian.  Musically, I can’t really explain it.  Nothing is as wistfully yearning as “Lost Together,” nothing is as cozy-dreamy as “Side of the Road”, and nothing is as screened-porch evening as “Falling Down Blue.”  Sigh.

The World Of Soundtracks

Like the Venti Caramel Macchiato, soundtracks are a much better idea in theory than in practice.  I am writing this in Starbucks like an idiot so the comparison seems particularly apt.  I’m deep like the ocean.  Back to the subject at hand: soundtracks.  Horrid.  You like a show??  Get the soundtrack!  You can recreate that loving feeling every time you slide it in your stereo.  But you know what?  It doesn’t work.  The reason you love a song in a movie is because of its context, which is usually the height of some ass-kicking throw-down that you imagine yourself executing flawlessly, if ever put in such a position.  I can promise that “Elevation” by U2 is solid shit without Angelina Jolie involved somehow.  Excepting anything involving Quentin Tarantino (who, overrated film projects notwithstanding, can turn dialogue and choose music like no one else, and is thus more than worthy), the usual problem with soundtracks is that as an album, they’re too disjointed to work, and come off less as a cohesive artistic statement and more of a bizarre sonic hodgepodge.  However, such strangeness can provide hilarious media promotion moments, such as when the most banal movie star, Tom Cruise, went on Muchmusic to talk about the Vanilla Sky soundtrack and was forced to mention the band Looper as one of the selling points.  To connect with the kids, see.  Looper, an obscure Belle and Sebastian side project featuring spoken word ramblings and found-art family films projected on the wall at shows.  Tom Cruise.  Heh.

I Am A Terrible Daughter

This is evidenced in my collection by three factors.  Four, actually, if you count the fact that I own hundreds of albums but have only been employed sporadically throughout my life.  Therefore, through generous monthly allowances and other funding, my mom and dad have essentially purchased most of the CDs, and thus own Sonic Youth, Liam Lynch, Peaches and Cypress Hill albums.  Hmm.  Anyhow, the three factors.  Number One: On a mix CD made for me in high school by my then new, now best friend (hiiiiii Justin), there is a Dixie Chicks song that my mom wanted to hear back in the days when I had no internet connection or CD burner of my own.  I doubt I ever played it for her, and likely skipped mindlessly past it even when I was in the car with her, anxious to get to Kid Koala or whoever.  See?  Terrible.  Number Two: There is a CD labeled “Menopause” in a clear plastic holder, so that I can readily see this constant reminder that my mom asked me weeks ago to burn ten copies of it for her friends (apparently, “Menopause” is a comedy routine that’s really big with the Talbot’s set).  Number Three: An old Chemical Brothers CD, bought for me by my sister’s husband when he was courting her and, in my mind, desperate to impress me.  The Chemical Brothers remind me of Beth Orton, who reminds me of Lucinda Williams, whose life’s work I was, of course, supposed to copy for my dad.  Poor sod.

I Need To Play More Of The Following:

George Michael - Double album! Awesome! Plus I bought this on the same day as my first date with my first love. Aww.

Dave Newberry - Songs About Cutting Your Hand On A Table Saw.  My friend Dave.  We met at politics camp.  The sweet lamb really did cut his hand on a table saw.  His sister “Sioux” sings on this.

Paul Simon - What the fuck?  Why is he so awesome?  Really, what the fuck? When did this happen?  Was I sleeping?  I think I was sleeping.

The U2 Best Of, which may as well still be in the cellophane, cause I’m not convinced that I’ve ever listened to it.  It does contain my favourite bedroom anthems, “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” which I recommend playing when you first leave your parents’ house or something.

There Really Is No Better Method of Communication Then a Mix CD

Nope.  None.

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