Missive conversations are intriguing.
Take today as an example. One of my colleagues mentioned a previous job writing for a music magazine in a quasi-large Midwestern, identity crisis laden Midwestern city. Ok, fine, it was Grand Rapids. But, during his recounting of his experiences writing for this magazine, he mentioned places I used to tread. Clubs like the Apple Lounge, The Intersection, other shitty bars on Monroe that no longer exist. These are the breeding grounds not only of the crappy kid that thinks skateboard parks are “cool”, but also some really kick-ass music.
When he and I were kids (read: 16), getting in was, in and of itself, not just a challenge but a rite of passage. These places were cool. Now, with the click of you left mouse button (except for you Mac addicts.. seriously, two mouse buttons are a Good Thing [tm]) gets you into what was once the underbelly of the music scene. To get that demo tape *shiver* meant you had to sneak, lie, or coerce your way into some smokey, piss-beer-serving former juke joint populated by ex-merchant marines, bar flies that real flies don’t touch, and twenty-somethings who continued to peg their jeans into the late 90s.
Not that I’m a scenester, but being “in” used to mean something. Now, any jerk 14 year old from OK City can be down with local Detroit bands.
Wait, that’s a good thing. Dammit, did I just get old?
Get off my lawn!