Live and Let Listen

Jan 31, 2008 - 22:11 PM PST

My last job was running the music department at the Barnes & Noble here in Little Rock. It was pretty normal retail management stuff: sales figures, stock, schedules, performance reviews, corporate visits, so on and so forth. Now, Little Rock has its fair share of attractions, but as music stores go, this one has the best selection and is pretty much the only game in town. About 40,000 items. Big whoop, right? I mention this not to toot my own horn (which is, if you're interested, a flügelhorn) but to say this: if you live in Little Rock, and you've just got to have it today, then you're going to the B&N to see if they have it - it's not like there's some massive online catalog of individual tracks you can download for only cents per song. We all want stacks and stacks of cracked plastic, because how else can you show off your collection? Besides, jewel cases are not only attractive, they're good for the environment. The next time you're tempted to just toss that case, remember that there are poverty-stricken regions around the world that don't have jewel cases, and have to rely on Case Logic books to keep their discs safe. Frankly, I think it's time the UN stepped in and did something.

Suppose you're digging through the bins, trying to find that compilation of Kraftwerk b-sides remixed by 1970s Turkish funk sensation Mustafa Ozkent. Who is the one person you don't want trying to engage you in conversation? It's not the salesperson, or the proprietor, or the stockboy with the AC/DC t-shirt. It's not the jackass outside playing Dave Matthews covers on his acoustic guitar while he's got a lit cigarette stuck between the strings in the headstock of his guitar, and you ask him why he's doing that, and he says it's just the Keith Richards in him, and you want to tell him that Keith Richards wouldn't even let him spit-shine his old snake leather boots, but you don't because if even a wrinkled old warthog like Keith Richards wouldn't give this guy the time of day, why the hell should you? It's not even the lady who asks you what you and the other young people think of the latest release in Rod Stewart's American Songbook series, which are, by the way, the worst albums released in this hemisphere since Tony Danza began insisting he was a crooner of Sinatra-esque quality.

The guy you don't want to meet is a soul-devouring dread beast. You may notice the stench of sulfur and bitter almond before you actually see him. In the Latin, he is snobbus profundis musicales. He is the music snob. He appears in a wide range of guises, known variously as I was into them back when their first album came out it's not available any more-guy, won't let you forget he has a local radio show-guy, and yeah they're okay but I know about this other band that is way more influential but somehow I'm the only one who has ever heard of them-guy. Regardless of what form he assumes, whether hipster or fork-tongued demon, you know EXACTLY who I'm talking about. You could do a Jeff Foxworthy "you might be a redneck" style roundup if you like: "If you have a high-contrast picture of Thurston Moore pasted to the ceiling above your bed.... you might be a music snob." "If your horn-rimmed glasses are actually made entirely of masking tape and paper clips... you might be a music snob," and so forth. On the off chance you've never come face to face with the Musnob (MYOOS-nob, like "mucus", then oh boy, watch out. Professional gamblers will tell you, "if you can't spot the sucker at the table, then you ARE the sucker." Well, if you can't find the music snob in the store, then you ARE the music snob. Whenever I don't see one, I know it's me.

Nobody lets their freak flag fly 24/7, but we've all got a healthy dose of snobbery in us, some topic about which, at that very moment, we know absolutely everything. It happens to me all the time, and I have to reign it in before I make a fool of myself for claiming something asinine like "that guy from Gang of Four is the greatest drummer since Art Blakey!" Art Blakey, anyone? Anyone? Bueller? In the interest of full disclosure, I'll tell you that it was only by going to my happy place and practicing my deep breathing exercises that I refrained from telling a chartered Greyhound full of Tunica-bound seniors that they should turn off Leonard Bernstein Conducts "Rhapsody in Blue" in favor of my copy of Wish You Were Here, which, in my mind, "was certainly more influential in the last 20-odd years than Gershwin ever was when you really look at their concentric ripples throughout the public sphere." Granted, these claims are probably related more closely to some sort of chemical imbalance on my part, but I think the point stands firm nonetheless.

Before I continue, let me just say that I was talking about this topic years ago, back before you knew about it, and probably before you were even listening to music. I could show you my first essay about snobbery, but it's out of print. I have a copy, and so does Stephin Merritt, but it's extremely rare. It's a collector's item. The guy from Fugazi owns one. I know Todd Rundgren, and we went to see Radiohead open for Steve Reich's premiere performance of his Wilco-Aphex Twin mashup at the Bowery Ballroom and afterwards, we had some home brew that Captain Beefheart told me was made by the guy from Fugazi. It was alright. Let's move on.

Snobbery in any form is a strange type of lunacy in which we attempt to assert ownership or exert control over something that's not ours to own or to control. On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have enthusiasm, which I would argue is primarily an act of reception and appreciation. The difference between the two comes down to a very simple experience: enjoyment. I don't think it's a stretch to say that enthusiasm relies on enjoyment while snobbery is contingent on its negation and the discrediting of its source. "I have experienced what you have experienced," snobbery says, "and I find it unimportant," and just like that, the snob is saddled up on his high horse, or the fox in the chicken coop, or some other animal reference. I don't know, I don't do farms.

Oh, before I continue - that reminds me of the time that Jim O'Rourke and I were driving tractors backstage at Austin City Limits during T-Bone Burnett's set, and Dean and Gene Ween came up to me and said "Hey, Matt, how's your leg? I heard you hurt it when you were skydiving with Stone Gossard while listening to Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon as read by Jim O'Rourke." It was alright. Okay, let's move on.

One of the easiest ways to hurt someone - and by doing so, elevate yourself - is to attack what makes them happy, especially by asserting that you didn't enjoy it, as we assume that enjoyment is a genuine reaction. You reveal yourself when you enjoy something. Look at dating - go and have a good time with someone and you're more likely to get to know them, much more likely than if you visited, say, an abbatoir. Or maybe slaughterhouses are your thing, in which case, well, you and I should really meet.

Here's an example: I like sports. I watched the Super Bowl. I love the Chicago Cubs, and if you cut me, I will bleed Arkansas Razorback red. (A razorback is a wild pig; this is not a good sign for my cholesterol.) I have encountered, lo these 25 years, a significant number of people who are politically, culturally, and socially very similar to myself but who have no interest in these teams or events. That's okay by me. However, snobbery sets in when this disinterest becomes active dislike and rejection, as in, "how can you waste your time on that?" I grew up with this stuff, and I'll hoot and holler for anything that's got an aggressive red boar and the word "Arkansas" slapped on it; this doesn't mean I can't also like the Pixies. For the record, I don't like the Pixies, I think their guitars sound like crap. But I could like them, and I won't insist that you don't listen to them. Even though their guitars sound like crap. And you know what else? People have been watching sports since time immemorial, since the first time a couple of Neanderthals discovered what fun it was to play Bonk Head Have Happy Is Fun. Enough in defense of sport, though. The point is, it's imperative to fight these impulses to correct someone because the something they're enjoying is the wrong something. Even if it's just the upshot of a desire to help, and it comes from a snuggly place in your heart. It's a trap; that snuggly place has been overrun by an ego blitzkrieg and sent on a death march down to your spleen. (Your "alter blitzkrieg-o," maybe? No? Sorry - I never met a pun I didn't want to take home and lay down by the fire.)

One of the first questions my head shrinker ever asked me was how long it had been since I'd really enjoyed something, and I've found it an excellent question to ask myself if I need to gauge my depression. If it's been a while, maybe it's time to start pounding those happy pills like they're Milwaulkee's Beast through a beer bong. (Not really - always take your medication as recommended by your doctor. Unless it's really good stuff, like... crack. Give your crack to me.) Since snobbery seems predicated on the fanatical besting of everyone else's fun, I suspect that the snob may be incapable of enjoyment.

Pity the snobs; they may be woefully depressed.


[NOTE: As I write this, I'm listening to Tom Waits' first album which came out five minutes after he was born it's out of print but I have it. See I got it from the guy from Fugazi, who Ryan Adams introduced me to when I was hanging out at Max's Vinyl & Cassingle Shack (corner of 7th and Chester, across from the Deep South Communists' Theatre). That reminds me - ask me some time about the funny story about how the landlord didn't know he was renting it the loft above the DSCT to Adrian Brody until he saw The Pianist and even then he thought he was Robert Downy, Jr.! Can you imagine, mixing those two up? That's like getting Black Francis mixed up with Andrew WK! Oh, the hilarity of your ignorance!

Anyhow, I've got a copy.]