![]() Like all teenagers, I wanted to be different. ![]() That is, the supposed agent of an ancient gyration, whose taste and sensibilities exist outside the ordered rigor and craftsmanship of a monolithic “real music.” And so I, disgusted at the stereotype and its applicability or lack thereof, sought refuge in a mastery of an alternate history. I used to be a rockist.Īll this complicated by the fact that I am a biracial African American. ![]() That is, a navel-gazing Baby-Boomer retrospective, a hopeless sensibility passed on through the most accessible sources and arbiters of popular music culture, Rolling Stone’s “500 Greatest Albums of All-Time,” etc. So by the dawn of my adolescence - a time when one is better embroidering a self-concept with all its appropriated and internalized peripherals - I came to imbibe and live through what was readily available outside the nuclear unit: mostly what came in the mail. Beyond the trappings of A/C radio, it was an ocean. Growing up, my family didn’t keep up with music much.
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