Mike got me thinking about how wonderful it is to be articulate about music (something I’m not). I just hammer away at something until I eventually spit it out. Luckily Mike is much more eloquent about it.
I don’t know how to describe my musical taste – I sort of have the tastes of a crotchety 62-year-old man, what with all the Daniel Lanois, John Hiatt and Ry Cooder floating around this blog.
Let’s put it this way, but don’t read too much into it:
I like Pink better than Feist.
I like Paul better than John (most days).
I like U2 (from 1981 to 1995) better than Arcade Fire.
I like Bob Dylan in the eighties.
I like all of the artists mentioned above, I just like the ones on the left more. I mean, there’s nothing particularly novel about any of this, obviously. I guess I’m a sucker for a killer chorus. To me, a pop song has a very broad definition: it has to have either a chorus or a bridge that just slays you. A perfect pop song is one that feels both familiar and original at the same time, “Help” by the Beatles being a good example. So for all that pop music can be described by a chord progression or a certain song structure, to me it’s better described by a feeling. I think that feeling can get buried some times: like for example, some people hate U2 now because they’ve been played to death combined with the fact that they’re douchebags. I was driving down the QEW the other day with the windows rolled down and the sunshine in my eyes and “Where the Streets Have No Name” came on the radio. I cranked it way up and just listened to it like I was hearing it for the first time. It was fucking otherworldly.
Maybe I’ve stumbled on a second criteria for pop: it sounds best played loud.