My friend, Mark Blankenship, is an astute guy. He's funny, intelligent, a great conversationalist, and loves himself some pop music like this tender kitten right here. While we've yet to discuss the cultural merits of Stacey Q (a.k.a. Cinnamon), I know this boy's got great taste and knows his stuff. He writes all about it in his free time on I Totally Hear That, which I totally heart. Recently, while chatting about music, we had an interesting exchange...
Mark: You've heard The Smiths, right?
Andi: Um, yeah.
Mark: It's weird, but I've never really listened to them.
Andi: ...
Mark: I mean, I never got into them. I never really heard or listened to much of their music.
Andi: Remember how you and I were talking at that party last week? I was wearing a "Meat is Murder" t-shirt.
Mark: ...
Andi: We have so much to talk about.
And we did. Then Mark wrote this, which I encourage you to read (regardless of whether you're a Moz lover or hater). Mark is discovering the beloved Morrissey long after you're "supposed to". I love that he's getting into the music in a unironic way. It's refreshing. Mark's enthusiasm has inspired me to dig up my old Smiths CD's and get reaquainted, and I'm finding that I, too, am enjoying the music from a different perspective. I may not feel black on the inside anymore, but I know that I'm still begging for the powers that be to "please, please, please, let me, let me, let me, let me get what I want this time". That line still elevates my melancholic tendencies, but then I remember to "boot the grime of this world in the crotch, dear" and I smile. Sometimes The Smiths speak to me like an old friend, and other times they're just happy melodies in the background.
So, hey, Mark? I choose both, too.
