Welcoming friends

The Internet just got a whole lot bigger. There's been a recurring theme in most of my quasi-insightful long-form posts (i.e. the ones you never read) in that just about all of them originated from some nugget of insightful napalm from my main man Anthony Cefali. Well, now Anthony's got his own blog called Things Mistaken for Dinosaurs, and will assuredly do everything in his power to make my own humble site (even more) obsolete.

Especially refreshing was this take on ephemerality and Titus Andronicus lyrics. Anthony frames it through Interpol, but it may as well have been myself writing about the Strokes, or probably any other one of you and your first favorite band that first let you down (for many I would guess Weezer). At some levels, they're all doomed. No band can grow without ostracizing a number of old followers because we latch onto the early recordings so dearly. The more we invest in a band, the more the band transcends music and becomes an experience, an emotion. By definition, then, the band can become one of two things: abandoned or stuck. If they move on to a new sound and disconnect from the ephemeral emotion in search of another, we lose interest. If they continue to evoke the same emotion, they're not making progress. Think Art Brut.

Maybe it's something about cyclical history—the higher the highs the lower the lows; the more we invest the more we have to lose. But I think there's also a fair amount of personal growth attached. The reason Art Brut's stagnancy doesn't bore us to death is because we're only attached to the point that we attach to our own irony. We connect with a lot of Eddie Argos' ideas, but they rarely teach us anything about ourselves. It's selfish, really: When a band gives us a glimpse into our inner psyches, we have a hard time following them elsewhere.

But then there are times like Titus Andronicus when it just so happens that we're all going to the exact same place at the exact same time.

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