It's Dan MacRae

Hello City. I’m going to be continuing my self-indulgent ramble about my unimpressive (and surprisingly light on ska) history of musical taste. It’s going to be an avalanche of text and Primitive Radio Gods inspired dick jokes, so there’s no shame in passing this by to look at new and exciting developments in the world of streaming pornography. That said, I recommend all my internet pals (Tumblr enthusiasts and otherwise) think about doing their own silly little post about their history of music listening. If nothing else, it will trick you into falling down a rabbit hole of delightful YouTube clips. Also, I would read every single one of those types of posts because I’m a colossal nerd that is interested in these sorts of essays/rambles/MS Paint Projects/manifestos.

Check out Part 1 here and Part 2 here. You don’t even need special goggles to do it. (Unless you have prescription goggles, of course. I’ve got your back, goggle chums.)

Being fifteen is a pretty exciting time. I mean, that’s when you can go crazy making mixtapes and watching award winning movies on Showcase on the off chance you might see nudity. What could be a better way to spend your nights than that. Or as Kelsey Grammar once sang: tossed salad and scrambled eggs, what is a boy to do? (I think that appears here. I don’t fully understand the song.)

Instead of experimenting with drugs or making out or learning how to drive, I was having a blast discovering new bands. Now that I had a CD burner and a way to get MP3s, I could get whatever I wanted. It was an incredible thrill. Now if only I could find out about bands from something other than MuchMusic or Entertainment Weekly. I needed more. And I got it in the AV Club and Blender.

The AV Club was a parachute of magic sent down from Heaven. Or Wisconsin. Not only was I reading about bands I had never heard of (Clem Snide, Pedro The Lion, Lambchop were ones I latched onto), but there was a good chance I would never even encounter these acts in my Wedge watching and Winnipeg Free Press Saturday CD review reading travels. It was like have access to treasure map that led to millions of other treasure maps. There wasn’t just music out there that I liked, it was music that I could feel belonged to me.

I also had Blender, the world’s most misunderstood music publication. Originally spunoff from junior high stroke mag Maxim, I’ve always had a hard time finding other people that gave the publication a chance. (Granted, wedging in Paulina Rubio centerfolds didn’t help the Maxim Does Music reputation.) I always cherished Blender because it covered all genres, was exceedingly pop-friendly and wasn’t afraid to just be silly and charming. I genuinely believe the editorial direction given by Craig Marks and Rob Tannenbaum influenced my musical tastes more than anything else. Once again, I felt another leap forward in just liking what I like. This was a magazine that felt comfortable shitting on Rolling Stone’s sacred rock cows and knocking out loads of lists featuring one hit wonders, pop oddities and cheesy thrills. I felt like the magazine had one guiding principle: if you like a band or a song, own liking it. Fuck it, Sugar Ray has some good singles. I’m cool with that.

That said I was trying to navigate this whole new wave of bands I was discovering that were cool and “important”. There were loads of bands I wanted to like, but they just didn’t do anything for me. I tried to trick myself into thinking I liked At The Drive In and Fugazi, but it was becoming clear that this was a counterproductive exercise.

I’d like to say this trend ended in high school, but I occasionally fell back into the trap of trying to convince myself I liked stuff I didn’t all the way into my early twenties. It’s one thing to give something a bunch of listens to see what the fuss is about, but I used to try to force myself into “getting it”. It’s an incredibly silly tendency to have, but there genuinely was a period of time in my life where I was concerned because I didn’t like Glenn Branca or whatever. What kind of crazy bullshit is that? I ended up learning to let that go four or five years ago and it cracks me up to think I didn’t figure out to give up that ridiculous battle sooner.

Fuck me, that got all issue-y. Let’s break it up with something I enjoyed and rapped along to with much cracker-ass-crackerness while going to get a Pepsi from the Shell station a couple miles away.

Onward To Saskatchewan

When I was sixteen, I left home to move to Regina. When you live in a village where people are outnumbered by cattle, the capital of Saskatchewan might as well be Paris. I just wanted to go somewhere with newfangled things like movie theatres and paved roads. There was just one issue: my grandparents didn’t have a CD burner. I was back to square one. I could still download music, but it would remain stuck on the desktop. I needed my tunes played on a big clunky stereo located in my room. I needed to jump on and off my bed and pretend I was doing whatever it was that Forgotten Rebels did when they played “Surfin’ On Heroin”. (A recommendation from Winnipeg Free Press music columnist Bartley Kives, who kindly replied to my pushy email request for music recommendations.)

For one year, I’d once again rely on the services of a burnt CD dealer and weasel them into seeking out the scribbled list of songs that I wanted to have access to. I was excited to listen to the bands I had read so much about. I found bands like The Smiths fascinating before I heard a single one of their tracks, so I had extremely high hopes for this new crop of bands I researched like they were Civil War generals. Granted, it was kind of a lock that I would like The Smiths. I was a self-absorbed loner teen that gravitated toward the school’s improv program and took a weird level of pride in never going to parties or dances. What part of “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” doesn’t appeal to that demo?

My dad ended up taking a job in Regina the following year (2002, calender fans), so I ended up moving back home. I was back to my comm room. I had my CD burning options back and I was ready to play catch-up and make unrequested mixtapes of varying quality for people (I think Jeffrey Lewis and Clipse back-to-back is unassailably awesome, some people disagree). There was something different to the process this time, though. I had tumbled down the NME rabbithole.

I felt unreasonably proud for feverishly keeping up with the most critically beloved acts of 2001. After all, I must be a genius for figuring out that The Avalanches, The Strokes and Turin Brakes are great. Okay, scratch that last one. The point is, I was getting into the habit of actively trying to keep up with what was hip and new and getting caught up in the sort of tizzy that tricks people into thinking that Starsailor were going to conquer stadiums. The girl that stole my Moldy Peaches CD? She probably was jealous of how brilliant I was for knowing who they were. (It took a long time to accept that she wasn’t mugged in the incredibly confusing fashion she described to me and no one else and that she had just stolen the disc.) Now that I stumbled across the NME, I wasn’t just being rewarded for having “good” taste, I was being treated to insider tips on what the next new and exciting things would be.

Five Acts The NME Pegged To Change The World During My Readership

1. The Datsuns (who weren’t that bad, really)

2. The Others (who were that bad, really)

3. Selfish Cunt (who was/were that bad, really really bad)

4. Wolfman (Pete Doherty’s drug buddy that had a not that bad song)

5. Goldie Lookin’ Chain (I authentically, sincerely, 100% love Goldie Lookin’ Chain. I loved them then and I love them now. I even had their logo ironed-on to a t-shirt.)

Reading NME was like reading a magazine from an alternate universe with its own weird customs and royalty. It was a world where Oasis were still kings and everyone talked like they were in A Clockwork Orange. There were big outlandish opinions about things and silly proclamations were in every single paragraph. I loved that. (I also enjoyed Playlouder, which was an online magazine that did it in a much smarter way.) I kept up with everything they knocked out and tried every band they recommended on for size. This is what led to me going on an enormous Libertines kick in my senior year of high school.

The Rap Battles (Bonus Extra Anecdote For Some Reason)

In high school, I went with my pals Brennan and James (Access 7 completists may know us from the cable access comedy show Ding Dong Hilarity) to see 8 Mile. This would lead to me and Brennan freestyle rapping for about a year. We’d just drive around in Brennan’s car with a couple of discs of instrumentals I compiled and battle rap each other. I have absolutely no idea if we were any good. I thought Brennan wasn’t half bad although I’m pretty sure he no longer freestyles. (It didn’t come up that much at his wedding.) I still occasionally try to rap every once in a while. I’m terrible at it, but I like sputtering out lyrics. Most of the time when I’m trying to freestyle, I’m basically treading water. I’m making sure I’m saying things and trying to not freeze up on the mic. I used to occasionally battle rap in the high school parking lot. I’d usually be pretty garbage, but it was something I got an enormous kick out of. If I’m drunk, I can be coaxed into freestyle rapping. And also into completely ruining your night with my horrible freestyle rapping.

Next Up: Modern Dan Is Yakking About Music Up To The Present