8:30 Tuesday night finds me ensconced in my favorite booth at the local coffeehouse, with a large cup of coffee and Kierkegaard open in front of me. It’s been a long day already: a five mile run at 6:00 am, work, a quick bike ride before class, two hours of debating about whether or not we know what “quality” is and if we can make the assumption that God=Quality. Now, I’m sitting with 300 pages of reading that I have to complete before Thursday and a excruciatingly tired brain. God Bless that first person who decided that running hot water over pulverized coffee beans was a good idea. If they hadn't existed I wouldn’t be functioning these days.
I’m too engrossed in my Kierkegaard to pay attention when the bell rings above the door. It isn’t the sudden chatter of a number of voices, or the frenzy of the barista behind the counter that pulls me out of my reverie. It’s the abrupt strumming of acoustic guitar strings that sounds like a death knoll over my studies. I look up only to see an undergrad, probably around eighteen, sitting amid a semi-circle of adoring women of about the same age. He wears a yellow t-shirt that states: "Somewhere in Texas there's a village missing its idiot." He has perhaps the BIGGEST hair I’ve ever seen, and is digging in his pocket for a guitar pick. An ill-suppressed groan and dive for my MP3 player and headphones earn me one of the dirtiest looks I’ve ever received from one of the young women seated next to me. “Some people,” she comments to a friend in a stage whisper, “just don’t know how to really appreciate music.” I roll my eyes as she turns back to the undergrad who’s in the process of saying “This is totally, like, the GREATEST song ever written.” Then he launches into a horrendous version of “The Times They Are A-Changing.”
As I crank up my MP3 player, I acknowledge that there is some truth to the young woman’s words. A quick perusal of my music library would show you anything from Appalachia Waltz to Shakira and Damien Rice. I am entirely tone-deaf, can’t play an instrument to save my life and can’t even tap my foot in time to music. Despite all of these setbacks, I think it’s possible for me to acknowledge some universal truths about music. The foremost is that there are WAY too many protest-song writing, idealistic, mediocre to terrible singer-songwriters out there. In Chuck Klosterman’s words, I have to blame someone, so I’m going to blame Bob Dylan.
A caveat before I go much further. I love Dylan. “Don’t Think Twice” is possibly my favorite break-up song and I’ve included “Just Like a Women” on a disproportionately high number of mix tapes. However, liking Dylan’s music is not incompatible with hating the tuneless, nasal-y imitators he spawns on college campuses every year. Dylan made is possible for guys with big hair and terrible voices to believe that, if only they write enough songs with anti “The Man” slogans in them, they'll be hailed the voice of their generation. I can understand someone who was kicked out of choir idolizing Dylan, but I’m not quite so sure how he ended up as the poster-child of the neo-hippies. Yes, he has some pretty searing social commentary. He also, wonder of wonder, has some great songs about falling in and out of love, faith and modernity, and isolation and lonliness.
I pause my music to hear a little bit more of the young man at the front of the room and between phrases like “bring the regime down!” and something about demilitarization I can tell that this guy’s guitar is out of tune and that he probably hasn’t taken his allergy meds today. Buddy, when I can tell you’re out of tune, you have some major issues. I’m tempted to stop him between songs and offer him a Kleenex, but somehow I don’t think that would go over well
It’s not the fake nasal voices or the untuned guitars that really grate on me. It’s the fact that every single one of these songs sounds the same. If I hear one more song about bringing down the WTO or the military injustice of the Bush Administration I might strangle someone with their spare guitar strings. I dislike these songs for the same reason I dislike God-Pop and angry feminist music. In the whole constellation of human experience, you can only write on one theme? I understand the idée fixe, but for goodness sake, could you occasionally write a love ballad or cover an Elton John song? I’d suggest “Tiny Dancer.” I’ve never met someone who seriously dislikes that song. All right, so Elton John might ruin your street cred, but how about a little Mason Jennings—he has some great non-protest songs. Give your diatribes a rest and sing a little bit about joy, or sadness if you must. But lay off politics for awhile. If you have to vent your frustrations about border patrol or a military presence on campus you could take the highly radical approach of writing to your representatives or having a conversation with a ROTC student about values. If you really can’t contain yourself, why not set some Wendell Berry to music?
Despite the Prince I’m currently blasting into my brain, this guy and his groupies have totally shattered my concentration. It’s back to Emmaus, I guess, to try and finish this round of work before another long day starts. I quickly pack up my belongings, get a coffee refill to go, and head for the door. As I’m leaving, the woman who commented on my lack of musical taste mock-whispers to her friend again. “I’m so glad there’s room now for people who actually want to enjoy the show.”
What can I say? This kind of music, it ain’t me, babe.
