Barbarians at the Gate

Another survey of the 50 best albums in the last 5 years was posted at http://www.stereogum.com/. As usual, bruised egos and “you’re morons!” reactions abound. Surveys are not exactly without value but they are to be taken with a grain of salt and a pitcher of lemonade.

What I found appalling among the reactions was that the list contained too many Brits. What’s objectionable about how the Brits create their music anyway? Besides, music supposedly, has no nationality.

On some mornings, I listen to Victor Jara even if I hardly understand what this Chilean is singing about or Sigur Ros even if I don’t get their shit. A friend burned me some Cuban music which I dance to with George as a partner. There’s nothing from the Buena Vista Social Club though in this compilation. If you have not heard of them, try watching the documentary that the compelling Wim Wenders directed. It has to be in my top 3 of favorite music-docus, thanks to Joma.

Anyway, there’s also this old cassette tape of lullabyes in several languages that I liked so much which I couldn’t play anymore. I know of some people born in this enchanting city of Tacloban who can listen to bossa-nova all day or some music from India or Africa labeled as “world music,” Putumayo is laughing its way to the bank.

I mean you don’t have to be anything except deaf to be smitten with music. Not unless you prefer the sound of missiles and bombs and human cries of anguish. The irony of it all is that those who send the bombs are located far enough to hear the deafening sound that their foreign policies bring. But I detest talking about them today. Not when I just enjoyed my morning coffee.

The world is in shambles and I opt to talk about my first favorite band (a 2-minute drum roll) – DuranDuran who happens to be Brits, those yummy boys from Birmingham. Most of my HS freshman year was devoted to Duran-adoration. At that time, I only knew of them and Tears for Fears. Before them, my idea of a band were the Cascades and the Lettermen, thanks to my father.

And another atrocity committed by my father was telling me that the BeeGees was going to be bigger than the Beatles – “Wah! Ha ha! Staying alive, staying alive.” Can’t exactly blame him – he did a better impersonation of Barry Gibbs (or was it Maurice?) than John Lennon.

But DD, they paved the way for the British invasion of the airwaves. Saw their performance at Private Sessions 2 weeks ago and they sounded better than ever. They were not popular though with my classmates who preferred Menudo, the former boyband of Ricky Martin.

Got a huge crush on DD’s drummer, Roger Taylor (not to be confused with Queen’s drummer). Let’s just say, he’s the first man to make me feel like a girl. His monicker in the band was “Froggy Barnacle” and I cannot anymore remember why. All I can remember is how badly I wanted to change my name to Froggy.

DD does not figure in the list of best bands or best albums and as a fan, I don’t mind. I don’t believe in superlatives anyway. Besides, everything is subjective. What is nourishment to one could be poison to you.

So I don’t subscribe to the idea of a best album or best film or best book or best poet. I have favorite albums and films, influential books, and poets that I dig. Herman Hesse, for example, is not exactly a celebrated novelist but his novels are quite influential to me.

These guys behind A-lists, they serve a purpose – as gatekeepers of certain standards. Precisely, they should be kept at the gates. Don’t invite them to your abode and invade your universe.

More importantly, differentiate what you want and what you need and don’t allow these gatekeepers to convince you that what you want is not exactly what you need. That’s just how it goes – either they F-you or you F-them.

Enjoy the rest of this fucking great summer, people.