Welcome to Forgotonia

I never thought I would do it.

But a couple of years ago, I finally started making the switch over to digital music. And now I’m hooked. It stopped occurring to me to miss cover art and liner notes right around the time I realized I could get things like The Suburbs for less than a gallon of gas.

Not that long ago, I considered the shift to digital–and to actually never “owning” music–as blasphemy.

But now that I can type into a search field anything I want to hear, (and, almost always find what I’m after–are your ears burning, Black Keys?), will I every pay for music again? (Especially now that, as I’ve mentioned lately, I’m trying to rid myself of practically all of my possessions?)

Spotify My Love

I’d been hearing about this new service called Spotify from my favorite radio show, Sound Opinions. But I didn’t jump onto the bandwagon until around the same time everyone else and their dog was suddenly “…listening to such-and-such on Spotify,” according to their Facebook feeds.

And while I still haven’t figured out how to make the most of it as a social medium, (connecting with friends and sharing playlists with them), I have figured out the part that, at least for now, matters most: hearing and discovering good music.

I realized I had reached a possible no-turning-back moment the other night when I logged in to my 50-item Amazon wish list–which had consisted of CDs and MP3 albums I’d wishlisted over the last couple of years and planned to check out–and turned it into a playlist on Spotify.

How can I not take advantage of free access to music? I asked myself. Even with Amazon charging $5 or less for certain CDs–which in itself has simultaneously caused me guilt and glee, as I’ve mentioned before–purchasing everything on that would still have cost me more than $250.

When I declared to my husband, in the process of creating that list, that I might just use Spotify forever and never buy albums again, he surprised me (clutter policeman that he is) by saying he didn’t like the service. “The ads are annoying,” he said.

But to me it’s a trade-off.

I could upgrade to the paid service, of course, and skip the ads altogether. But, having grown up waiting through what felt like hours of commercials for “Garlique” brand garlic tabs and Hooked on Phonics for The Rick Dees Weekly Top 40 to come back on, I can live with them.

See Me, Hear Me, Feel Me…But Not Touch Me

I do have to ask myself, though, as a lifelong music enthusiast–one who still hasn’t been able to part with the cassingles she still owns–am I abandoning an important part of the musical experience that I’ll eventually miss?

After all, I still refuse to convert to a Kindle, because, as I’ve discussed before, BOOKS MUST BE SMELL-ABLE and I will never change my mind on that.

Google Image result for "messy CD pile"

But the truth is, since I took the leap and ordered my first “album” digitally from Amazon, I don’t particularly miss having broken jewel cases all over the house. Or discovering that one of my favorite albums of all time now skips. Or paying $15-$20 for something that probably cost 3 cents to make.

So really my only remaining concern is that in a couple of months or years, something will come along that makes even Spotify seem clunky and hard to use, or some competitor will clobber it and I’ll have to start re-making all of my playlists.

Or at least that seems to be the pattern in this this fickle social media world.

Players Only Love You When They’re Playin’

Just in the time between 2006 (when bullet number one, below, occurred), I went from:

• listening to my first-ever online radio station, WOXY.com, which was really cool but apparently went broke and closed up shop, to
• subscribing to La La.com, which was a pretty nifty service but ended up getting pooped on/obliterated by iTunes, to
• Last FM, which I tried because I heard lots of other people make reference to it, but which eventually annoyed me for reasons I don’t really remember but seemed to have to do with annoying navigation and/or freezing up my computer, to
• Slacker Radio, which C-Nor recommended and which I still like, (but which I’m betting will probably also fold, now that Spotify is stomping across the nation like a giant thing from Ghostbusters), to
• the Amazon Cloud Player, (for saving all the MP3s I had been purchasing), because it launched just at the time I really needed it–i.e., moving from one house and job to another and discovering just how many files I had stored in different places (and couldn’t access–shame on you, iTunes), to
• the aforementioned Marshmallow-Man-huge service.

So, tell me, has the web revolution caused you any musical moral conundrums?

Do you use Amazon Cloud, the new Google music storage system, or something else entirely? Or are you still buying 8-tracks at garage sales on your block, (as well as copies of microwave cookbooks)?

Please tell me about your own musical-ownership evolution–and what on earth I should do with those cassingles–below.

It’s list season, with Best Movies of the Year, Best Albums of the Year, etc., being published everywhere you turn.

At a younger age, I could have actually given a fairly educated take on all these subjects.

But gone are the days of lying on the floor doing nothing but listening to music, of actually subscribing to Rolling Stone, of going to the movies without worrying that I might have to take out a loan.

So, rather than an actual critical assessment based upon hours of careful evaluation, allow me to offer this, based on the cultural highlights I do manage to catch as a boring old adult:

A List of Some Stuff That I Liked in 2011

1. Bossypants, Tina Fey. This book made me laugh, (which I expected), and made me love her even more than I already did (which I did not think possible).
2. Helplessness Blues, Fleet Foxes. Rather than declaring this one a sophomore slump, I ended up liking this one almost as much as the first. Singer/songwriter/frontman Robin Pecknold, in the first lines of the first track on the album, pretty much sums up thousands of thoughts that have been circling through my mind (hint: procreating/not procreating/what is the purpose of life, etc.) for the past decade. And he does it so beautifully, again, in the title track, when he sings about wanting to be “a cog in some greater machinery.” You might think it sounds like navel-gazing, but you’ve got to hear these lyrics set to music. (I’ve tried 279 times in the past 30 minutes to list the lyrics here, but the formatting in this numbered-list function is screwing it up, grr. So you’ll just have to go listen for yourself. You won’t regret it.) As with the first album, however, and despite the gorgeous, Pet Sounds-era Beach Boys-ian harmonies, there a couple tracks I usually skip. (Especially that one with the “saxophone freakout” that lots of critics commented on this year. Dear Fleet Foxes, I would be perfectly happy if you left out the sax squawks in your future efforts. Signed, a fan.)
3. Stone Rollin‘, Raphael Saadiq. This is an album I never would’ve purchased if it weren’t for the rave reviews from the guys on Sound Opinions. (But there are some sweet, tuneful love songs on here, including one that I liked so much, I asked the DJ to play it at our wedding as part of the guests-arriving-time music. (We had an outdoor, not-really-wedding-y wedding, I should probably point out. And, actually, come to think of it, I had him play this one from Helplessness Blues, too. Did I mention how many beautiful songs are on that record?) It’s true that, as with a couple other things I let Sound Opinions talk me into, (like Janelle Monae’s ArchAndroid), I’m more drawn to a handful of songs than to the record as a whole. What great songs those few are, though–powerful and moving and yet catchy at the same time.
4. The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, Sarah Silverman. This one was darker, and funnier, (and better) than I expected.
5. The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta. When I first learned that one of my favorite living fiction writers had a new book coming out, I was dismayed when I heard the title and the subject matter: the Revelation. But I ended up liking this one maybe even more than his last two, The Abstinence Teacher and Little Children, which were both great. If you’re into literary fiction but also sometimes wish for literary fiction that’s accessible and darkly funny (i.e. does not depress you for weeks on end), this is your guy.
6. Scenes from and Impending Marriage, Adrian Tomine. The one and only problem with this book is that it’s too short. I can’t tell you how refreshing and awesome it was, in the year that I was planning a wedding, to read a critique of the wedding industry actually coming from a guy’s of view (meaning the guy was actually involved enough in the planning to have an opinion!)
7. Everything Must Go*, starring Will Ferrell. Dark, and sad, and based on a short story by Raymond Carver, but somehow still funny and hopeful (seeing a theme here?).
   *Okay so this one, I just discovered after imdb’ing it, actually came out in 2010. But I’m gonna leave it here because I feel like it.
   
8. Win Win, starring Paul Giamatti. One of those sweet slice-of-life stories that you feel like you might possibly have seen before (or something similar), but still somehow feels totally new.

So there’s a smattering for you. There’s a lot more stuff I enjoyed, of course. And so much great stuff out there I’m sure I missed.

So, that’s where you come in, dear reader. Please share some of your own highlights of the year, and tell me what I absolutely must check out before it turns into 2012.

Do what I say!

As I mentioned recently, I’ve been trying to get rid of stuff as the result of moving to a smaller space.

It’s taken a lot for me to get this point, but, I now want to keep things only if I can state a solid reason:

• “This inspires me.”
• “This reminds me (in a non-depressing way) of someone I will never see again.”
  and/or,
• “I’m actually, for certain, going to use this, and it will happen on [this specific date].”

But despite this new sense of empowerment, I’m still struggling with a philosophical problem. Let’s call it “The Aging Hipster Faces Her Existential Angst.”

Chapter 1: Shirting the Issue

During the move, I unearthed from the back of the closet a bunch of concert T-shirts from shows I saw in the late 90s and the early 00s.

There, in a giant plastic bag, was a whole folded-up past; 100%-cotton, size-XL proof of  once-passionate devotion (not to mention of disposable income) for bands like Wilco, Guided by Voices, and, yes, Dave Matthews Band.

And  in sticking with my pledge to pare down, I knew that if I was going to move them to the new apartment, I’d have to find space for them or actually do something with them.

At first I thought about looking into having one of those memory quilts made. (But something about cuddling up on the couch under an ugly album-cover image by a band I can no longer stand just doesn’t quite go with IKEA decor.)

And, thanks in part to certain reality-television stylists’ sage advice, gone are my days of wearing boxy cotton T-shirts that reach down to my knees, (i.e., a fashion line called “The Alison, 1990-2002″).

But I’ve been saving these shirts for a reason. And now, somewhat painfully, I have to admit what–who–it is.

Chapter 2: Sweater Song

When I was in middle school and heard “Light My Fire” for the first time–and learned that my uncle in Seattle, my mom’s hip brother who I idolized, had been a fan when he was in high school–I was mesmerized.

By seventh grade, I had developed a full-blown obsession with  late-60s and 70s pop counterculture. I’d ask my parents quizzically about why they hadn’t gone to Woodstock. How could they have lived through the Summer of Love without being blissed-out hippies or passionate protesters (rather than, say, a church-going prospective high school teacher and a Navy seaman)?

Still, in my late teens and all through college, when I would search rather desperately for jeans with a flared leg, my mom would lament, “Man, I wish I’d kept my bell-bottoms and disco shoes….Stuff always comes back in style.”

And all of this time, my uncle periodically shipped me cassettes and CDs of non-top 40 music, exposing me to Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, Jimi Hendrix, on and on. Stuff that, not to be too dramatic about it, changed my life.

So I guess I’ve always expected that I, too, would someday be a passer-onner of the cool stuff from my own era.

I would never have to regret not having held on to such-and-such. Instead, I could say to the kid whose school was having “90s Grunge Day” for their week of “crazy” Homecoming days,

“Let me grab that hole-y green cardigan out of the attic, hon–you’ll have the best costume in the whole school!”

But as I’ve had to face plastic tubs of sentimental stuff I’ve kept from high school and college–I really do have an old-man sweater that I thought looked Kurt Cobain-ish when I bought it at the Salvation Army circa 1998–I’ve had to ask myself, “Whom, exactly, do I presume will be the recipient of all this ephemera?”

As every news outlet seems to announce on a monthly basis, women at my age are biologically supposed to be having kids by now (at least if they want to have a better chance at healthy ones).

And yet my husband and I–who’ve been married all of two months–happen to have other things on our immediate priority list than bringing a new life into the world (and hence changing both of our lives forever). Things like learning how to bridge our two single lives together. (Or at least finding a place for me to store my socks and underwear.)

Chapter 3: I’ve Finally Decided My Future Lies Beyond the Yellow-Pitted [war]‘drobe

I’ve come to realize that hanging on to stuff for the sake of my own nostalgia–or the sake of someone who might never exist–is actually causing me stress, rather than enjoyment.

The picnic basket I’ve had since seventh grade is stuffed with folded-notebook-paper notes my friends and I passed in junior high. I have all of them. No, really. ALL of them.

I still have every diary I’ve ever kept–and I started keeping a diary at, like, age 9.

Why–when I’d been alive all of a decade–did I feel a need, even back then, to document everything? Why this protective urge to be able to refer back to every lived moment?

It’s like whatever must possess people to carve proof of their existence into bathroom stalls and state-park trail signs: “I was here.”

And I guess I saved my Lollapalooza 1996 shirt because I wanted to prove to my future self what I was truly like at one time, not an edited, more flattering version of myself. (I thought I was so, so cool for getting to go that show–even though it was widely panned as “the year Lollapalooza sold out.”)

But I’ve got to free myself from this potential landslide caused by pieces of the past.

(And let’s say I do hang on to all this stuff for the sake of impressing my nephews? Ten years from now, if I relinquish my T-shirt from the 2001 Radiohead show, this is what I’ll hear: “That’s nice, Auntie, but…didn’t you ever go see Creed?”)

So, for now, (in a moment of strength), I’ve decided I’m going to get rid of as much of my memorabilia (or at least the wearable kind) as possible. Even if the only way I can get myself to do it is to stop to document it first, (as I’ve done below with a set of photos on Flickr).

(Now, don’t even ask me what the hell I’m gonna do with all those diaries.)

Recently I shared with you that I got hitched after many years of single-hood.

And I also told you about how, subsequently, I left my animal-infested rental cabin (in rural, small-town Illinois) to move in with my husband in semi-metropolitan “Quad City” area in Iowa).

Hence, it’s time to share with you some thoughts about crossing the state line and becoming an official Davenportian, as I like to say.

(I also like to call Bettendorf [one of the cities in this area] “B’dorfadorf,” in the style of “badonkadonk.” You may call it that as well.)

1. DMV Delight

My transformation became official on my second day here, when–upon realizing I was about to become an illegal driver in two states (my IL sticker set to expire)–I shucked out an arm and a leg and got my vehicle registered in Iowa.

Thankfully, I’ve got an aging Honda. They charge you by year and size of vehicle here. (Yet another reason not to drive a tank.)

my proof of purchase

When I opened the door to the Davenport driver’s facility, I wasn’t upset when I saw how many people were seated in the waiting area. Cool, I thought. Now I can get all those jokes on the sitcoms!

Where I grew up, in rural Illinois, not only did I not have to take a number at the DMV, but, the person at the desk would usually wave me over, call me by my first name and ask me what my mom has been up to lately.

So I have to admit I was almost disappointed when the Iowa DMV workers whipped me through one line to the next and I was in and out in under an hour. No chance to build up cred as someone who has finally lived a “big city” experience.

But I did take away one memorable moment: I discovered that the state of Iowa has some kind of weird dental discrimination.

When it was time to get my new license, as I stood in front of the blue background cloth, the lady manning the camera commanded me to brush my bangs off my forehead. “No problem,” I told her.

“No teeth,” the lady said.

“Huh?”

“You can smile, but you can’t show your teeth,” she said.

“Oh…okay,” I said.

What’s the state of Iowa got against a toothy grin? I don’t get it. But I didn’t want to argue. This lady might have had the power to deny me residency.

So I grinned, weirdly, and now I have a very Kermit-the-Frog face on my ID.

2. All Moody, All The Time

(And no, I’m not talking about my husband discovering what I’m really like now that we live together. Ha!)

I wonder what Elvis Costello could come up with if he were asked to update “Radio, Radio” after spending just one day in Davenport, Iowa in 2011.

Ever since high school, (or, for the past 15 years up until now/ having access to Spotify), I’ve envied my Seattle family members, college friends from Chicago, and others who lived in a place where there were radio stations playing music that was actually recorded in the current year.

As a kid, I had no problem getting access to the tunes I loved, because, first of all, I had no concept that there was anything other than Top 40 radio, and because second, I actually loved what was mainstream and popular, from Whitney and Bobby to Wham! and Belinda Carlisle.

These days, whenever I listen to Top 40 radio, in any location, I hear myself saying things I (of course) swore I’d never say: “Gah, what is this crap? That little Katy Perry is just another flash in the pan, you wait and see.”)

But now that I’ve moved to a place that actually has some population–a place I totally assumed would have at least one decent radio station, if not several–I find myself actually excited when I land on a station that’s playing anything recorded after 1978.

When I run errands or drive to work, and it happens to be a time when I’m not interested in listening to NPR, (i.e., news over, classical music begins), I scan the stations and it goes a little something like this:

“I can’t drive fifty-five” (skip) “…I was born on the bayou” (skip) “Today’s Tom Sawyer …” (skip) “…I ain’t no Fortunate Son” (skip) “…hold on to that feel-ay-ee-ay-in’… ‘” (skip) “….please join us in prayer here at Moody Bible Radio–”(skip)…”…I ain’t no senator’s son…” (skip) “…welcome to the Women’s Connection, where today’s focus will be: ‘How can be we work Jesus into our morning carpools?’” (skip)

 

Now, mind you, I love Credence and Journey and Rush. (Sammy Hagar, though, not so much). And I’m fully aware that ClearChannel owns the entire world and the days of varied radio are long over. But why can’t I find at least one station playing something other than classic rock?

Oh wait. I can.

Between every snippet of 70s-era guitar solo, I land upon admonitions to stop sinning and get with God before He smites me down right then and there in the automatic car wash.

The other day in my 5-minute drive between dropping off recyclables and stuff to donate to Goodwill, I got yelled at so vehemently by a guy declaring that life. starts. AT. CONCEPTION, I was starting to feel guilty for something I hadn’t even done.

3. Cross-Town Traffic (Brought to You by Big Brother)

At the risk of making myself sound like a serious hick, I have to admit that I’m still culture shock over the fact that there are two, four, even six of everything here: Hy-Vees, Targets, Wally-Worlds, Paneras, etc. There are two shopping malls, a “north” and a “south.”

And, while I haven’t really patronized any of those too much since I moved here, I have been running around a lot doing errands–partially related to moving/getting settled in, and partially to be a helpful housewifey type (since I’m only partially employed and my husband is double employed). So, whenever I ask my him how to get to some business or facility, I love that I can legitimately use phrases like, “Is that downtown?” Ooh, so urban.

On the other hand, I am so not used to actually having to wait (more than 3 seconds) at stoplights.  Or the fact that, on my drive to and from work, I pass through no fewer than three “photo-enforcement zones,” otherwise known as intersections through which, at any time, I could be videotaped and subsequently mailed a mean-ass letter saying I was going too fast (or interpreted a yellow light as “speed up.”)

My husband, Chris, has already received at least 2 of these evil letters in the mail in the last year or so, complete with a link to a video of himself behind the wheel. (And no, he claims, he was not caught picking his nose.) And a co-worker at my new part-part-time job told me she’d received a few as well, but, hey, “There’s a silver lining. They don’t affect your insurance.”

Well, I’m used to living in a place where the only “stoplight” in the entire county was a blinking red light on a pole.

4. The Final Nail in my Coffin of Nerd-dom

I have always–always–thought that if I lived in a place of any size, I would patronize the local music clubs and go to shows whenever anybody decent was in town.

But, in the weeks since I’ve lived here, I’ve already missed a couple shows of note: a group of Communion folks performing at the club with the weird name, and Paul Simon at the big arena (i Wireless). And the talented singer/songwriter M.Ward will be in town in a couple of days at RIBCO.

Question 1: Am I a drooling fan of any of thee above? No.

Question 2: If any of these acts had come to any of the small towns where I previously lived, would it have been thee biggest moment of the year? YES.

The truth about my new life is that, instead of spending time at rock shows, I’ve been…(tucks head down in shame)… hanging out at the library. Actually, make that libraries.

Did you know that there are places in this country that you can go to and find books and music and movies and that they let you take them home for FREE??? And that some of them even have coffee shops inside?

The linked library system in these quad cities is amazing. I can’t stop checking stuff out. And wondering aloud, “Why did I ever used to buy books, again?”

(Oh, and speaking of the driving situation earlier?? This sign at one of the Davenport libraries was definitely a first for me.)

In Conclusion and In Sum

The verdict, in the big picture, is this: I absolutely love living here so far. So much so that, with frequency, I’ve been shaking my head and going, “What took me so long?”

I have creative interests, so of course I need to live in a place where there are art museums, concerts (I will go, eventually), actual downtowns.

I do wonder, though: As I start to get more and more comfortable in a place where, (as you can kind of see in the background of the library pic linked above), there are cookie-cutter houses popping up everywhere, and where I can hit a Target just by throwing a rock, (but also where the neighbors in our apartment complex are not only strangers, but people who seem to attract the police on a daily basis), will I miss at least some parts of living in a small town?

What if I lose a part of my authentic self by becoming less rural and more suburban?

Mostly, I feel I’ve already gained so much by living here. (And, no, not just weight from better restaurants).

Every song is good! (Great, actually.)

I’ve been a fan of this folk-rock-ish band since the early 00s, when I was lucky enough to catch them when they played locally—at my very place of employment at the time, in fact (Knox College in Galesburg, Ill.) They played in the lounge area of one of the dorms, and I don’t even think I had to pay to get in. Some friends from my hometown had alerted me to the upcoming show, but I had no idea what to expect. I ended up being completely charmed by this band, which paraded around the dorm lounge for one song, one of the members beating heartily on a big bass drum.

Since then, I’ve purchased only one album, which I definitely liked. But for some reason I’ve been leery to try their following albums, because they’ve been described as rock operas, concept albums, and that kind of thing. And I’m not even anti-rock opera. But sometimes I don’t need my music to be so… heady, I guess? The frontman, of course, has been mentioned in the music press countless times for having an MFA in creative writing. Admittedly, without even giving the albums a chance, I’ve been a bit dismissive toward the other albums, thinking that it would take too much attention in my already scattered brain to really listen to, pay attention to the lyrics of, and relate to the music.

The brand-new album, though, is almost poppy, by Decemberists standards. I’ll let the actual critics tell you the details (you should listen to what Jim and Greg have to say.) But these are my two cents. If, like me, you’ve reached that unfortunate age where you no longer have time to lie in front of the stereo speakers and analyze, let me just tell you, you can get into this album with one listen, and yet the songs still have the Decemberists’ trademark creativity and intelligence.

Also, if you’re like me, you’re exactly how one of the band members hypothetically described the Decemberists’ fan base in a recent TIME magazine article: something like “they probably like to read, weren’t good at athletics in high school, listen to NPR.” Um, check, check and check.

Earlier this fall, Sufjan Stevens’ record company issued a statement arguing that consumers should think twice before taking advantage of Amazon.com’s  five-dollar pricing. (See the Nov. 2010 list of multi-genre cheap albums here.)

Sufjan’s company was wise to say in the statement that it’s a plus when a low price helps fans discover new music. But, according to their argument, artists’ effort and creative product–such as Stevens’ most recent album–”is worth more than a cost of a latte.”

On one hand, I totally get where they’re coming from. To be honest, I was surprised when Amazon started doing its $5 pricing, (or at least when I first discovered it, a couple of months ag0), there wasn’t more of an uproar from the recording artists. (Where are you on this one, Lars Ulrich?!).

An Sufjan Stevens, with his creativity and originality represents the very kind of non-corporate artist I dig.

By the time his company made that fuss, I had already realized that my instant Amazon purchase of the Arcade Fire‘s The Suburbs– the week it was released, for five bucks–was the equivalent of buying something at Wal-Mart because it was easy and cheap, even if I don’t believe in the values of the Wal-Mart way. I knew that as I sat at my computer contemplating the purchase, I should probably log off, walk up the street, and pay $10 or $12 for the tangible album at The Phoenix, (which, true to its name, has arisen multiple times and endured in several different locations around Macomb, but which I fear is surely struggling.)

So the comment from the Sufjan camp did cause me to stop and think.

But then I was done thinking about it.  “Purchase with one click?” Why yes, Amazon, thank you, I believe will!

And so I basically ripped off an artist I like and respect (not to mention a local store owner). Just like I’ve done over the last couple months, when I bought the latest albums by

• Broken Bells
• Yeasayer
• The Hold Steady
• Band of Horses
• My Morning Jacket
• LCD Soundsystem
• The Avett Brothers
• The Weepies
  and others.

In other words, I’ve purchased more new music in the last few months than I have in the last couple of years–or maybe since I became an adult.

It’s like a floodgate has opened after a drought–a drought so long and severe that I had resigned myself to the idea that it was permanent.

Depressingly, my lifelong passion and devotion for pop music began to wane as soon as I had to start facing such things as,  say, an electric bill.

For the music fan, everything about adulthood slowly begins to take you away from what you love. From being able to go out and comb used-CD stores every weekend to discover that gem that’s going to change your life. From racing out to get the latest from your favorite band on the day it’s released. From going to shows, which require tanks of gas to get there, Ticketmaster fees, overnight accommodations, etc. (And btw, Sufjan, I did go to see you in St. Louis a couple years ago, and those tickets cost me at least a week’s worth of lattes.)

So does five-dollar pricing suddenly change all this and turn you into a teenager again?

Well, no. But it makes a difference.

It allows work-pants-wearing, responsible adults like me to feel like they can stay connected to their passions without worrying about whether they’re exhibiting arrested development by purchasing the new hyped Gorillas album when they’re supposed to be buying a hypoallergenic heater filter.

Somehow, even though it’s not that huge a difference, spending $5 rather than $15 or $20 seems like something I don’t have to feel financially guilty over.

But then we’re back to the ripping-off-the-artists problem.

I certainly want artists like Sufjan and The Weepies and the Avett Brothers to be able to make a living by creating, and not having to work crappy jobs to support themselves. But the company’s decision to issue a statement feels sort of akin to parents leaving for the weekend and saying to their teenagers, “Hey, that beer in the fridge? We know you want to experiment, but…it’s wrong, okay?”

I can’t pretend to have any real answer for how the music business can continue to make money, or the legitimate concern about artists not receiving what’s due to them.

But when it comes to easy-access digital music being Good for Fans vs. Bad for the Company, isn’t the horse already a long way out of the barn?

I wouldn’t have heard any of these new albums listed above if it weren’t for Amazon’s new deal–unless a friend pressed a ripped copy into my hands. Which would mean zero dollars for the artist or the company. Maybe the price of a latte is better than nothing at all.

What do you think? What’s your stance? Support artists and local stores, but go broke trying? Amazon and Wal-Mart to be the death of independent artists? Leave me a comment below, or like/share/comment on Facebook or Twitter.

I was brought up to believe in sending thank-you notes (unlike certain friends of mine who recently got married, apparently. Ahem. Did you or did you not enjoy that toaster? I guess I will never know.) Anyway, THANKS to all the comments you left when I put the call out to see if anyone is reading.

Thumbs up to my homies!

Feel free to imagine me singing a gratitude-themed song in the style of [pick Lilith-Fair-type below] :

• Alanis Morissette
• Dido
• Natalie Merchant

OR, feel free to block all those songs from your head for infinity; I wouldn’t blame you. (Though, okay, I kinda like the Alanis one sometimes. But I’m still really a fan of Jagged Little Pill era and not beyond. You?)

Hey y’all. I wanted to point out a couple small things:

1. At the bottom of each post, you should now see a “Share This” prompt. In other words, if you should be so moved by an individual post, (and of course, you will be, I mean, duh), allows you to share it via Facebook, etc.
2. I’ve added some Linkage—some people and places I like to follow—over on the right-hand side (under the list of tags). Check them out if you have time. (And check yoself to see if you made the cut!) And btw,
3. thanks to any and all of you who follow this blog. I love knowing there are people actually out there reading what I have to say (though I often find out about this by running in to you in person, rather than hearing from you in the comments section. *Ahem.*) Without you, I would be a just another lonely nerd spewing her silly stuff out into the either… Oh wait…;)

The Local Natives put on a low-key, tuneful show, playing most of their debut album, Gorilla Manor, (including their Talking Heads cover of “Warning Sign”) during their set Saturday (May 15, 2010) at the Rock Island Brewing Company (RIBCO) in the District of Rock Island*.

(*Which, because of Daytrotter studio sessions and concerts, should officially change its name to the Island of Rock. Who’s with me?)

I tried to capture a couple of shots. See more pictures here.

Read about, or listen to, Local Natives here.

This past weekend, Chris and I got to see five up-and-coming bands perform in a barn outside Maquoketa, IA. The critically acclaimed Ra Ra Riot (in this pic above) performed, in addition Delta Spirit, Free Energy, Nathaniel Rateliff, and Pearly Gate Music—all for $10, and with half of the proceeds going to charity.

Before the concert, we took some time to explore the area and take in some nature. Please check out my photos of the first part of the day here, and my full set of pics from the Barnstormer3 show here!

And you can download free, legal tracks by each of the five acts at Daytrotter.com.

P.S. Don’t forget to check back soon for my interview with Lost States author and map creator Michael J. Trinklein!