Binghamton, 2006. I’m 23, living in a fire-trap basement apartment in the ghetto. I’m that kind of art-poverty broke where I live on black coffee and scrambled eggs and dinner is paid on for on a rotating basis between whichever one of us got paid that week. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with my life except that I know I want to write and listen to records. Out of college just over a year, I’m kicking myself for not having spent more time in music classes because I’ve got a subscription to Spin and being a music journalist would have been a kick-ass career.
I started a blog, Kill Your Ipod and reviewed shitty CDs from indie bands that I solicited over email. No one read it except a couple of stalkers. I wasn’t even sure how to write about music. I lacked the technical language; all I had was this intense passion, this gut feeling whenever I listened to Tom Waits or Warren Zevon or the patchwork of mix CDs that stood in for conversation with boys I liked. I hung around the record store and worked at FYE like a model waiting tables, hoping the right person might notice me and ask me to move back to NYC to write for some new music magazine.
While my sisters and peers were in love with Devon Sawa and JTT, I was crushing on Matthew Modine in Cutthroat Island and Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park. While they were listening to Mariah Carey and Blink 182 on Fly 92, I was calling in to B 95.5, the adult contemporary station, in hopes of hearing George Benson’s “Turn Your Love Around.”
When I discovered The Smiths and Siouxsie & The Banshees in high school, then Tom Waits in college, I could finally feel cool. Sure, it was a hipster-goth kind of cool, eschewing the flair-leg jeans and trucker
Bask in my total fucking coolness (or don’t, who cares.)
hats of the early-2000s for Doc Martens and cabby caps. I discovered a lot of incredible music during this time period, aided by some awesome mix CDs from great people.