Stayin’ Alive amongst other irrelevant things.
The various phases of your puberty can be boiled down to the number of genres of music you have flipped through, some of which may take place overnight. It’s as though one day you suddenly pick up your elder brother’s CDs and then, BAM. Those days of shrieking ‘Incompleeeeete’ by the buxom Backstreet Boys are over. Those Avril posters are scraped off the wall before your friends walk in on you, listening to teenage angst. Oh, those silly old days. You throw away the small poster of Boyzone lying in your cupboard. Suddenly your brother’s CD is the epitome of good music and thus begins your journey of finding your way out of the commercial ‘crap’ to get to ‘real fucking music’.
You talk in a lower pitch now, such that baseless, elongated sentences professing your love for the artist such as the ‘OH MY GOD, NICK CARTER. OH MY GOD’ now becomes a stoic, ‘Good shit’. You seem entranced by how cool you now seem in a crowd. You rotate your neck, apparently ‘in-sync’ with the music. The soundtrack of ‘Requiem for a dream’ plays everytime you take a dump. You take a local all the way to Crawford Market to buy the Nirvana T-shirts. You beam everytime your friends want to borrow it. Slowly your friends and you start looking terribly similar. You’ve forgotten colour by now and anything black is the only thing you’d allow your Mum to pick up from the store. You save up for the new headphones. You get to the technical aspect by studying only the chapter on acoustics before the Physics exam.
Now that the cloud of ‘real music’ has finally entered your veins, you get to promoting it. After all it is a duty to guide others to the music that the legends have left behind. From this point, you can only jump into the rabbit hole called ‘The Society of Musical Intellectualism For the Benefit of Humanity’. You single-handedly advertise your religion, converting those who still are plagued by the atrocities of Pop-Culture. You smirk at your young cousin’s playlist and buy silly Hannah Montana Tiffin boxes for your best friend just to annoy him/her. After this comes a stage where you make a new friend. Someone you should have met some time ago but didn’t, because of destiny or your immaturity. Wikipedia. Every band you like must be researched and brownie points must be earned. You must stalk every vocalist and read Slash’s auto-biography. Atleast the online review of it. Kurt Cobain’s suicide/murder must be copied onto a word document with the evidence suggesting murder highlighted so as to remember it whenever it is that a heated argument may take place.
You must also update facebook with your new-found passion. Updating your status about how it is infinitely greater to burn out than fade away on Kurt Cobain’s birthday will also be a good booster to your social image. Having a music scene is not too bad either. If incase you haven’t been playing the electric guitar for a while, you can definitely buy a DSLR and become the band’s official photographer. Afterall the vocalist with the afro needs to update his profile picture on the facebook group every once in a while. So you creepily listen to even better music in between taking photographs of them drinking coffee at a local bistro and rolling some joints.
Then come the rolling papers. At such a crucial stage your hunger for good music stops itself at Pink Floyd. Cold terrace floors, roaches in your pocket and some munchies later, you don’t care about your old best friend still listening to Avril. You’ve moved apart now. Beyond the frantic, lustful zone of the boy bands. Beyond the angsty lyrics that you cried yourself to sleep with when you realized you may be quite messed up. Beyond all the soft rock nights and jam sessions. Beyond doodling and engraving ‘The Killers’ into the last bench during Math. Beyond listening to Lamb of God in the rain while travelling. Beyond waiting for AlterBridge’s new album. Beyond Eddie Vedder’s genius. Beyond the moist walls of the underground concert your senior recommended. Beyond Kimya Dawson’s childlike simplicity and Regina Spektor’s buttery voice. You are now a member of the esteemed society. Congratulations, your mother is proud of your Bee Gees collection and your father envies your discography of The Smiths. Your hard drive now contains gold that your friends occasionally dig into and you have the coveted playlist with The Who on it. You are now socially competent enough to be called ‘the one with the good taste in music’.
As most people wise enough to have survived through their college years would tell you, this too is a phase that will soon pass. One of these days you may accidently click on a secluded folder in your computer such that familiar beats of Boyzone blasting through the speakers will pull you into a mood too incomprehensible, that of nostalgia and the good old days you danced your night away to Falguni Pathak.