The Elitist

I own a foreign SUV, a suburban tract home, and a pound puppy mutt. I bought a suit at the mall this weekend. I am about as far from an elitist as you can get.

Yet, that is not what many of my friends would have you believe. Some say I am a blogging elitist because I do not routinely post lists, quizzes, memes, etc on RER. I don’t refrain from such posts because I don’t enjoy them. I read many of my daily blogs simply to read such lists. I take the quizzes and enjoy them. I think there is a great place for such things. This just doesn’t happen to be one of them. The biggest reason…I write for myself. This is my diary. The neat part is…other people read it.

I digress.

Most every elitist accusation regards my taste in music. This Newsweek column got me thinking about it.

First…full disclosure: I grew up during the days of glam rock and hair bands. Among my first concerts was a rocking ampitheater Tesla and Firehouse show. I once lied about my age to win free radio station tickets to a Motley Crue concert. My dad picked up the tickets and gave them to a client. I’m still not sure what a collection agency client would want with Crue tickets, but that isn’t the point here. The point is…I grew up drinking what the music industry put in my sippy cup.

As my musical palate matured, I stopped ordering large boxes of tapes and CD’s from Columbia House. I grew to hate MTV (so much so that a college roommate would tape Ace of Bass–or was it Base?–and Snoop Dogg videos and play them in an effort to make me get out of bed). I started trying to convince my garage band buddies (The Flaming Puppies) that we should stop playing our rock and roll standards and start playing songs by a band called Cracker. They giggled. “Crackers,” they said.

Now, the music industry is slowly discovering that much of the drivel it spits onto mass-produced CD’s just ain’t selling anymore. Hundreds of millions of dollars worth of perfectly bad music is going unsold, while music that was barely promoted is selling well (ever heard Ralph Stanley sing “Oh, Death?”). Maybe it is because the music-listening public is tired of hearing a new song turned into a car commercial before it is released on CD. Maybe it is because Spears looks really good hawking Pepsi, but doesn’t give you much reason to tap your foot while you’re sitting on the back porch waiting for the BBQ to cook.

Right now, my CD player loves me. There is no sugar on any of my CD’s. As I drive down the road, my player slobbers over Springfield, MO-based Big Smith, the foot-tapping finger-picking blues of Roy Bookbinder, jamgrass artisans Acoustic Syndicate, groovy jamrock masters Donna the Buffalo, and alt-country crooner Charlie Robison. That’s only this week. I’m currently off my Eddie from Ohio, John Gorka, and mix-CD rotation. That should start again later this week.

That is eclectic, ladies and gents.

I may not like your Creedy Trains and Your Matchbox 20-somethings, but I am no elitist.

And did ya notice? Three paragraphs ago…I slipped a list in on ya