Amazing original motion picture soundtracks, wherefore art thou? When was the last time we heard a great motion picture soundtrack that Quentin Tarantino or Cameron Crowe or Wes Anderson (and perhaps a small handful of others) weren�t involved with?

In the mid-�90s, a great soundtrack wasn�t such a rare thing. Since at least the Fast Times at Ridgemont High soundtrack, an original motion picture soundtrack has been used as two things a) an advertisement for the movie, and b) an advertisement for some new bands the label is pimping. Fortunately for music fans in the �90s, the major labels had swallowed up all the best (and worst) indie bands, in hopes that maybe one or two might be the next Nirvana. And though we all know how that turned out, we still have the artifacts of the time; the soundtracks full of b-side material from some of the best bands of the time period.

Let�s take the Clueless soundtrack: possibly the best soundtrack of the �90s. Before you get angry and start shouting Pulp Fiction let me clarify what �best� means in this case: it features some of the best material from the time it was produced. Pulp Fiction is surely a great soundtrack, but it�s timeless; it could have been compiled in any decade. Clueless, on the other hand, is a product of the �90s. Hell, it�s literally a product. Some executive may have just thrown some songs they needed to promote on a CD soundtrack but my god, whether it was serendipity or not, they created something very listenable. Honestly, where else are you going to find an official compilation that pairs Radiohead and Coolio side-by-side? Here are the top three songs from this compilation of �90s greatness:

World Party � All the Young Dudes

Perhaps the number one teen anthem of all time updated for Generation X? Somehow, World Party does a ridiculously good job here. Where Mott the Hopple didn�t stray from Bowie�s original demo recording, World Party may stray even less with their cover. Nonetheless, Karl Wallinger�s band updates it to post-punk standards, giving it a looser, livelier production than Bowie�s with loud drums, fuzzy, thrashing guitar and of course, an energetic chorus of singers on the coda.

Supergrass � Alright

Keeping in line with �teen anthem,� Supergrass� �Alright� uses a glam-pop sound that�s equal parts Blur and Bolan, making for one of the catchiest things the band ever wrote. A simple piano riff propels the song, while jangly guitars ring out happily in the background. The chorus tries to encapsulate that feeling of just hanging out with your friends, �But we are young, we run green / Keep our teeth, nice and clean / See our friends, see the sights, feel alright� and the line �Are we like you? / I can’t be sure� implies that this generation of teens probably isn�t like any one that came before it, but they don�t really care.

Cracker � Shake Some Action

Though Cracker�s version of the Flamin� Groovies power-pop classic doesn�t veer too far away from the original, it�s the small changes that make the difference. Where the original version has a quiet, lone guitar intro, the cover literally �busts out at full speed� with the chorus�s catchy, crunching riff starting things off. It sounds so perfect one wonders why the original band didn�t think of it. Lead singer and Cracker mastermind David Lowery�s voice is a big harsher than usual�it�s almost Jagger-like in tone, without all of the dreaded Jaggerisms�adding an immediacy to the track that makes it sound like the arena anthem it was always meant to be. Honestly, at the time this came out, I had no clue that this was a cover, and at the risk of having the power-pop mafia come after me, I�d say this version is probably superior to the original.

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I cop a lot of shit about my taste in music. Strange as it may seem, even though I�m a too-cool-for-school music writer, my opinions don�t command much respect amongst those I call my friends. They know that when you attack the music, you attack me. It�s all harmless, really�jibing designed to draw a reaction. Nevertheless, the constant barbs whenever someone looks through my record collection��it�s all rawk and guitars,� �it�s all Australian,� �You Am I is a shit band��start to get to me.

But today, on the 22nd anniversary of my glorious arrival on this planet, I will not stand for the insults. My music will take center stage. I shall sing it loud and sing it proud, because�goddamn it�it�s my party and I�ll play what I want to.

Regurgitator - �!*(The Song Formerly Known As)�

These Australians made some excellent irreverent albums in the mid 90s, fusing hip-hop and later 80s electro-pop. Before their gradual decline post-Millennium Bug�culminating in a cringe-worthy reality TV experiment where they recorded an album inside a giant dome in Melbourne�s Federation Square�their songs featured strong hooks and delicious irony. They won ARIAs (Australia�s answer to the Grammys in every way possible) and commanded television ads for their records. Not bad for a band whose back catalogue includes �I Sucked a Lot of Cock to Get Where I Am.�

This is the best song that Prince never wrote, a pastiche that somehow transcended its origins. A wicked portrayal of socially awkward misfits, its infectious beat appealed to the cool and nerdy kids alike. It is guaranteed to get any Australian child of the 90s onto the dancefloor, even if it�s simply in �the comfort of my lounge room in suburbia.� This song was not meant to connect with anyone, but with its insistent bass riff and high guitar flecks, it�s impossible not to succumb. Thank you Mr DJ, indeed.

The Rolling Stones - �Gimme Shelter�

Whilst this is hardly an obscure album track, this ominous, slinky, recording doesn�t get its due. It�s always lost somewhere between �Satisfaction� and �Ruby Tuesday.�

This is the Stones at their most egalitarian, playing as a single menacing unit. Charlie provides a solid groove under Mick�s cocksure vocal. Apart from a searing solo, Keef provides a controlled yet seductive guitar part, which contrasts starkly with his usual sleaze. Most inspired, however, are Merry Clayton�s vocals, practically bursting her vocal cords in the middle eight. No matter how dark the lyrics or portentous the mood, �Gimme Shelter� is truly exciting. If my friends have any sense they�ll realize that it�s the best thing the Rolling Stones ever did.

You Am I - �Purple Sneakers�

My friends don�t really understand my relationship with You Am I. I don�t think they ever will, because it�s deeply personal. The music affects me deeply. Some songs invigorate me and play to the wannabe rock star within me. Others, like this, tug at the heartstrings. It tells the tale of Tim Rogers being derided at school for wearing a pair of purple sneakers he was given by his father. Sure, I�ve never owned a pair of said footwear, but its thread of quiet alienation (�I just feel better when no-one else is around�) is something I�ve felt before.

Opening with the cleverest opening line this side of the non-existent Glebe Point Bridge �Purple Sneakers� scratches my itch in unexpected ways. For a song about alienation and finding comfort in a bottle of liquor, the chorus plea to �need somebody, to feel somebody� is surprisingly affectionate. Equally unique is how You Am I marry the warm textures of acoustic guitar and Mellotron flourishes with the machine gun drum coda. It may only be a three minute pop/rock song, but �Purple Sneakers� has an emotional and musical depth that still fascinates me.

If only my friends could see the magic in these songs. Twenty-two years walking this globe is a sizeable whack of experience. This music is its soundtrack. Nevertheless, no matter how much I love my music, and how much they hate it, they are still my friends. And on this night I want to hug my comrades as much as my record collection or the drink in my hand. They have stuck by me through thick and thin, and it will be a great time to celebrate. I�ll wear my Vans sneakers especially.

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Balalaikas and guslis and bayans, oh my! Just kidding. While I admit Russian Folk-Electroclash (Folklash?) has a pleasant ring to it, Soviet�s sound is more than a few clicks from anything one might describe as �conventional.�

The first time I listened to Soviet I thought there could be only one explanation: they were either from Europe or from the 80�s. Nothing else could justify in my mind what feat of nature might result in their creation. I was wrong on both counts: they�re not from Europe, nor are they from the 80�s, but, oh, don�t they wish they were.

Soviet - Breakdown

With its cuddly clapping and several appealing riffs, I find it hard to imagine this song escaping the ears of music supervisors worldwide. Perhaps it was in a commercial by Honda or Nokia some years back, or something more far-reaching than an HIV awareness ad (The Books - Tokyo) but less notorious than, oh, a Hummer commercial (The Books - That Right Ain�t Shit).

The thing is I�m not terribly fond of their album as a whole, but the gems on it breathe unlike anything I�ve whiffed from this genre in a while. They live, throb, pulse and otherwise thump in a way that�s guaranteed to induce hip gyration and bobbing heads, and while a good deal of so-called modern �hip-hop� can yield the former, it�s those bobbing heads that appeal to me ever so much.

Soviet � L�Objectif

This song is more Broken Social Scene than Fischerspooner, and more Air than O.M.D. You can taste the energy of their live show even on a relatively downtempo track such as this. Despite the stigma associated with the turn-of-the-century synthpop revival/electroclash emergence (well, go on, you do better), the sounds produced by this NYC quintet are downright enjoyable if nothing else. It doesn�t matter whether they sound like Depeche Mode on �Commute,� or if the opening seconds of �Marbleyezed� deceive me into singing LCD Soundsystem�s �Tribulations� (which came after anyway). I�m having a good time. I�m bobbing my head and shaking my hips. I�m making eyes at the boy across the room in the AFX shirt, and life is good, damnit. Life is good.

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Ryan Adams� Rock N Roll. If you are at all a fan of alt. country or indie music in general, you probably just had a fairly strong reaction to that fragmentary sentence.

Probably the most reviled album in a catalogue of conversely reviled and lauded albums, Rock N Roll is an album that many probably think doesn�t deserve a second chance, if it even deserved a first chance.

The story has been recounted too many times: Adams� record company Lost Highway rejected his initial follow up to the moderately-successful classic-rock pastiche Gold; a mope-rock album titled Love Is Hell. Taking whatever anger and frustration he felt into the studio with Courtney Love producer/sometime boyfriend Jim Barber, Adams emerged with a much more upbeat, but possibly even less Gold-like album than his previous effort�yada, yada, yada. Long story short, this album was met with strong criticism pretty much across the board (Stylus Magazine�s Josh Love gave it an F, Pitchfork gave it a 2.9 out of 10) and Lost Highway were accused of idiocy for relegating the better received Love Is Hell to a double EP.

But here�s the thing: I kind of like Rock N Roll. Actually, I love at least five songs on the album and think they represent some of his best songwriting. It�s actually surprising to me that this album was seen as such a departure. Sonically, it is quite different than Gold or Heartbreaker and most of his Whiskeytown stuff; but if people had been paying closer attention, they might not have been taken off guard.

To most critics, it was obvious Adams was an avid record collector. But where most critics and fans went awry in their thinking is assuming that Adams� record collection stopped about the same time Dylan converted to Christianity. Rock N Roll is proof that not only is that not true, but that for a time at least, his heart belonged to a land without lap steels or banjos: a place known as 80s post-punk.

To me, it seems that people were so shocked at his rapid turn around that they couldn�t take this album for what it was: a straight-up rock album. The critics who weren�t lamenting his turn from alt. country assumed he was trying to keep up with his friends The Strokes and The White Stripes, but nothing could be further from the truth. No one wanted to accept that this was basically the same album-sounding-like-radio concept as Gold, except instead of �70s A.M. radio mainstays, he was using The Smiths, The Replacements, and pretty much anyone else found on Rhino�s Left of the Dial box set.

Don�t get me wrong: there are some definite weaknesses here: �1974,� �Note to Self: Don�t Die,� and �Shallow� are all failures in whatever it is they�re trying to achieve. But there are some classic Adams tracks on here, as good as anything on Heartbreaker or Cold Roses, in my opinion.

Take �So Alive,� an apparent ode to Boy-era U2. This is one of the most emotional songs the man has ever released, with Adams pinching himself and hoping that his love won�t ever leave his side. It�s definitely a different Adams than the bitter lover found on �Come Pick Me Up,� but the fact that he�s saying it while showing off his vocal range or that he�s backed by effects-heavy guitars and synthesizers doesn�t make the sentiment any less valid.

�The Drug�s Not Working� may be the best song here, with some of the most cynical and hilarious lyrics this side of Paul Westerberg: �she was a hooker at the age of 16 / All she wanted was the money / She didn’t need an I.D. / She was a junkie and I know its clich� / But then so was her life / I mean, she lived in L.A.� The song is completely rocking until the ending verse, when it becomes completely hushed and melancholy, with delay heavy guitars and string-synths giving way to a piano: �riot in my skull, demons are coming / L.A. you�re dead, the drugs ain’t working / Painted it all black, the chains are jerking / L.A. is dead, the drugs ain’t working.� The last verse is the confirmation from the narrator: I may be joking around, but seriously, screw you L.A.

�Wish You Were Here� is a little less literal, but seems to be the stream-of-consciousness ramblings of a junky who needs his fix. The song builds on itself from the relatively down beat verses backed by a palm-muted electric guitar, giving way to the most gorgeous bridge of Adams career: �and if I could have my way / We�d take some drugs / And we�d smile��the ironically happy music fits perfectly with the attitude of a hit making everything peachy keen�how appropriate.

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A record can easily capture a time, an era in both in music and society. Most of the time these records are by single artists or bands, released at the peak of their influence. I believe, however, that one of the discs that does it best is the Help compilation of 1996, recorded to benefit the charity War Child and its efforts for children in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

This was at the height of the much-maligned Britpop era, a scene that has been unfairly mocked and insulted in the years after its death. It did become, without a doubt, bloated to a point where Oasis�s eight-minute cocaine operettas seemed quite appropriate, but it was also ambitious and unapologetic, two things that should be respected no matter the music. An album like Help, showcasing cooperation and camaraderie between many popular British and Irish artists of the time, served to take this somewhat caricatured scene and make it serious. Even if the music was the same, the purpose was different.

On September 4th, 1996, in studios all over the country, each band involved recorded a song. Some were originals, others covers. Orbital�s �Adnan� had the wonderful quality of all Orbital tracks, sounding melancholy and emotional. In fact, Orbital still stands today as the one techno/electronica group I can fully enjoy. Amid the usual heavies (Oasis, Blur, and Radiohead giving us the first release of �Lucky�), there were more one-off tracks by bands I never heard of again. The Levellers, for instance, contributed �Searchlights� to the collection, offering a pro-immigration song with their blend of English folk-tradition and shouting punk vocals.

The standout song for me has always been the remix of �The Magnificent� theme, as done by The One World Orchestra, aka Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty of KLF. It is a dance track, yes, but it�s also unique in the monotone samples taken from B92, Serbia�s underground radio station.

Ten years have passed since Help was released. As such, it could be looked at as a historical piece�a novelty artifact from an era that people rarely seem to care about anymore. Give it another ten, though, and Britpop will probably going through the reevaluation it deserves. It was about lads and cocaine and Kate Moss�but it was also about change, even through something as frivolous as pop music.

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In my local second-hand bookshop there’s a well-thumbed copy of Dr Arthur Janov’s The Primal Scream. Published in 1970, the book outlines Dr Janov’s “primal therapy,” in which patients deal with psychological pain through experiences that go deeper than traditional talk therapies. Although out of favor in modern psychology, “primal therapy” was big news in the 1970s, attracting some high profile devotees.

The idea of a �primal scream� brings to mind raw, naked emotion. John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band album was heavily influenced by his experience of Janov’s work and his vocal work on the album is what most people would think of when they hear “primal scream.” Or Bobby Gillespie�s band, possibly.

Consequently, it’s strange to think of another Janov-inspired band, Tears for Fears, as hailing from the same therapeutic territory.

Tears for Fears are best known for their massively successful Songs from the Big Chair album and the hit singles “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” and “Shout.” Unlike the doom-and-gloom aesthetic of many bands from the early 80s TFF embraced glossy synthesizer-driven pop. And they crashed right through to the mainstream with their odes to psychic dysfunction.

The Janov influence is more apparent on their first album, The Hurting, although mainly in the lyrics and song titles. The music is still glossy and sophisticated; raw emotion is subjugated to pop perfection.

Of course, spit and polish can only do so much to a jagged surface�and the anguish present in the vocals of “Memories Fade,” in which Roland Orzabal sings “memories fade / But the scars still linger / Goodbye my friend / Will I ever love again?” The depth of emotion even renders the mournful saxophone work from Mel Collins affecting, in spite of the cheesiness associated with the instrument’s use in pop music.

A more upbeat song in both tempo and content is “Change.” While it is largely an exploration of change in the negative sense, the pounding drum machine and whooping chorus lends the exercise an optimism that belies the refrain of “it’s all too late.” And there’s still the exhilarating synth-break to be reckoned with.

As a concept album about pain and healing, The Hurting, ends on an appropriately unresolved note. “The Start of the Breakdown” is a perfect fusion of the pop and primal scream elements of the album. Like the majority of the disc, the vocals are anguished and focused on the confusion and pain brought on by the turbulent past outlined over the previous nine tracks. The title suggests that for all that’s gone before, there is still more to come. It will get worse before it gets better. And yet the rapid, interlocking analogue synthesizer lines create a complex melody that is tense, troubled and hopeful simultaneously. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Tears for Fears’ enduring (and broad) appeal most likely derives from their ability to tackle complex subject matter and push musical boundaries, while still retaining a love of tuneful pop that allowed them access to the airwaves. Unlike more harrowing bands, you can listen to Tears for Fears regularly without abrading your ears. Unlike most pop bands, extended exposure won’t rot your teeth with sugar. This is therapy where you�ll want to make every appointment.

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It�s been a relatively slow year for rap. There�ve been a few great releases (T.I.�s King, DJ Drama/Lil� Wayne�s Dedication 2), but most every major release this year has been either superficial or disappointing. But beyond that, there has also been a void in great remixes, maybe my favorite part of hip-hop. It hasn�t been for lack of trying. Hip-hop heavyweights have all taken on monster singles like �It�s Goin� Down,� �Chevy Ridin� High,� and �Hustlin.� The verses from the guests on each remix are pretty decent when examined alone, but in each song mentioned above, there is something that those verses can�t capture. On the �It�s Goin� Down� remix Slim Thug and Rick Ross try too hard to be hard, while the original finds its niche as great mall-hop. On the �Hustlin�� remix, both Young Jeezy and Jay-Z mimic Ross� rhyme scheme, but aren�t physically capable of sounding nearly as intimidating over that punishing organ.

So I guess the next logical transition would be to examine what actually makes a memorable remix. The best remixes usually have rappers who either a) don�t mind spitting really great verses for other rappers songs, or b) have so many great verses that they can afford to spit one on other rappers songs. Maybe the one person in recent popular hip-hop that best fits both those criteria is Ludacris. And it�s his verse that is the centerpiece of one of the better remixes of this decade.

Nas� �Made You Look� is a great single in its own right. It was a song that Nasir needed at that point in his career- looking to continue the momentum picked up by Stillmatic�and ultimately propelled quite possibly the most commercially viable and widely accepted stretch in his career. But it almost pales in comparison to the remix. Jadakiss leads of the track with a typical, yet still great, Jada verse. It�s all there: the intimidation (�Why put you in a verse when I can put you in a coroner�s van?�), the bravado (�I copped your shit, now I break weed up on it�), and the self-introspection (�I help the game, it ain�t help me�). It�s pretty great, but just a precursor to the bombs Luda drops�his verse is a take your pick of grade-A quotables. Lova Lova is in his prime here, and the force with which he rhymes is usually unfound on high-profile remixes. He�s both hilarious (�You never stood half a chance like Siamese twins�) and cleverly slick (�I�m just a victim of society, it�s Chris the menace / With more shit out on the street than evicted tenants�). Nas� verse is exceptional too, one that is essentially a victory lap.

On the remix of the Game�s �Hate It or Love It,�50 most likely threatened severe repercussions throughout the G-Unit camp if each original member wasn�t at the top of his game, so the results are outstanding. Game�s verse is an exercise in contradictions, taking shots at Murder INC while saying he steal clears of beef. His verse loses the sentimentality of the original and 50�s verse is a retread, so it�s up to the rest of G-Unit�s heavy hitters to pick up the slack. Thankfully, they do. Banks sounds genuinely somber as he sings the hook then desperate and resigned on his verse. A fresh-out-of-jail Tony Yayo shows that he actually is a human being as he sheds some light on his upbringing. The star here, though, is Young Buck. Toning down his posturing and energy, Buck delivers the song�s best couplet: �You know I�m still nice with my cook game / Look maing it�s hood thang, that�s why I�m loved in Brooklayn.� All three guests here are able to capture the feeling and mood of the song in both their deliveries and lyrics, something that can�t always be said for that camp.

Maybe a potentially monster fourth quarter will provide opportunities for a few exceptional remixes, but as far as I�m concerned, here�s to 2007.

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What�s more important, catering to a person�s mood or their genre of choice?

Some mornings I wake up and wonder what Elliott Smith thought of twee pop, or what members of The Boy Least Likely To think of Skip James. Would �Killing Me Softly� era Roberta Flack have dug cuddlecore? Did Van Halen slam to Woody Guthrie at galas? Are Jay-Z and Lily Allen sipping Cristal to the sounds of Espers or Brightblack Morning Light?

If these artists were music critics, would they have (had) the strength to maintain objectivity, despite the heartache and trauma or the happiness and triumph before and after them? I doubt it, and I know I�m broaching a heavily debated issue pertaining to art, one that I should not attempt in fewer than 500 words, but this is one of those mornings and the music is on my mind.

Coincidentally, it�s also on my computer. The good fellows over at Said The Gramophone turned me onto Stone Jack Jones late last year and I haven�t known how to write about him since. I find myself grinning as �Smile,� the first track from Jones�s latest album, Bluefolk, gently streams through my speakers. After listening to five seconds of this song anyone will tell you it is not by any stretch of the imagination instinctively grin-inducing. So why am I smiling? I�m not the kind of person who revels in another�s misery; I don�t have an �A Minor� chord tattooed on my neck; I don�t bathe in sheep�s blood.

In all my attempts to convey what the handful songs that cause me to burst into tears or hysterics accomplish, I have never mentioned what they don�t. These songs aren�t powerful, they are power.

I mentioned genre earlier, but I�m not trying to recreate genre theory. I�ll be the first to admit I�m no Rick Altman. But there�s more at work here, I think, than this inclusive/exclusive (genre/mood) approach to music analysis; there�s more than �audience and institution.� There is ubiquity. There is timelessness. There are the unspoken hauntings we experience in every experience, in every breath, independent of whether it�s our first or last. Some songs remind us there�s more than the subjectivity the post-modernists would have us believe in, and it�s not a contest, a race to find some alleged �answer,� because I don�t think one exists either. But at times there are songs, and they are music, and they are us, and we are them. Goo goo g�joob.

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The Rolling Stones have always been more American than British. They may have caught on in Britain before they did in the U.S., but it�s clear we�ve co-opted the band. Hell, has any one person shown as much love for American music as Keith Richards? Look at the new Q Magazine poll of the Best Albums of All Time: The Rolling Stones Exile on Main Street is the first entry for the band and is placed way down on the list at number 34, losing to such classics as Californication and A Rush of Blood to the Head. That�s not to say the readers of Q have bad taste (I�ll let someone else make that argument) but it does show that the band just doesn�t seem to have the same love affair with The Glimmer Twins & Co. as Americans.

But the burning question among fans (or just me and, like, ten other people) has always been: are there any American bands that could be considered �The American Stones�? Is there anyone who can equal the swagger, sexuality, and talent of the Stones? The answer is probably no. And who would it be? Aerosmith and Guns N� Roses are obvious choices; two bands who consciously tried to emulate the greatness of the Stones, getting it down to a science: energetic, megalomaniacal frontman plus mysterious, but incredibly talented guitarist who is nearly always knocking on death�s door. Swagger, lean on each other a lot in concert, rinse in bourbon, repeat.

And that said, here I present a few, perhaps less obvious choices:

The Stooges � �Loose�

Possibly the only band on my list that might not have consciously been trying to be the Stones (hell, they just wanted to be The Kingsmen), The Stooges offered nasty, lurid rock n� roll with lyrical innuendos that would make Mick Jagger red in the face. If the Stones were an R-rated movie, The Stooges were Midnight Cowboy. Offering a similar brand of pounding riffs and raw sexuality, The Rolling Stones always took it to the edge and Iggy and the boys would take it to the edge, push it over, and proceed to stomp on it. They went places the Stones never would, sonically and lyrically. On �Loose� a lone grungy guitar riff surges, backed by the always primitive rhythm section of the Asheton brothers and the undeniably captivating caterwaul of Iggy in the background, only changing to a gentle croon to creepily tell us, �I�ll stick it deep inside.� When Jagger was still offering carefully veiled innuendo, Iggy was slapping raw sex right on the turntable with a youthful energy and vigor only the noisiest garage rockers from Motor City, USA could provide.

New York Dolls � �Trash�

The Dolls were often called �The Stones of the Lower East Side,� and there was little to differentiate them from other wannabes on the surface, despite androgynous costumes and makeup the Stones (or at least Mick Jagger) wouldn�t attempt for some time. They had one of the best versions of the charismatic frontman and enigmatic guitarist formula in David Johansen and Johnny Thunders, and both owed a great deal to their Jagger and Richards, respectively; but they also managed to bring a rough and tumble edge to the tried and true Chuck Berry riffs Keef had been recycling for years�a punkish quality and insatiable energy that the Stones never could quite seem to emulate despite their best efforts (see Some Girls� �Shattered�). �Trash� exemplifies this; a simple garage rock ditty made atypical simply by the power of the band�s playing. Like The Stooges, the Dolls make you feel like you are there. You can almost smell the smoke of Max�s Kansas City coming through the track�you can nearly see this gang of freaks tear through the track like an F-4 tornado, and they�re playing so furiously and mean, it�s hard not to get caught up in the whirlwind.

Grandpaboy � �Anything But That�

Grandpaboy is the handle former Replacements leader Paul Westerberg uses when he wants to churn out albums of sloppy, lo-fi blues rock. But this isn�t exactly Robert Johnson: this is grubby, classic rock. Where the Replacements were Faces and Big Star, Grandpaboy is all about Keith, with Mick Jagger as merely a minor annoyance, standing in the way of the genius of Mr. Richard(s). �Anything But That� from his first full length under the moniker, Mono, is everything the Stones were circa Exile: grimy, open G riffage and bratty, loose vocal stylings (not to mention the fact that it too was recorded in a dank basement, and sounds like it).

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I wasn’t born an indie kid, obviously.

Somewhere in the dark back of time, I was just like everyone else. At 12, my favourite artists were Billy Joel and Bryan Adams. At 13, it was Bon Jovi. By 14 it was the Foo Fighters and Oasis. My mid-teens were lost in a Brit-pop haze. You get the picture. You might even have been the same.

In the lives of everyone who reads this site, or writes for it, there were experiences and people and songs that left a mark on us. We were spoiled for the ordinary. Sure, you turn on the radio and find gold in there but that’s never where it stops. The hunger is with you all the time and you can never again be content with what the playlists and promoters are pushing.

And then you wake up one day (or you might be in a club or on a train or watching TV) and realize that somehow you’re different. Your favorite songs, the ones that make you cry yourself to sleep, punch your fist, grin like an idiot, and dance like a superfreak, are different. Sometimes just plain weird. And you will play them to someone (your little sister, your boyfriend) and expect them to do the same goofy moves or at least say something like “wow” but they don’t. They just smile awkwardly and make some dismissive remark like “nice” or “interesting.”

I don’t think we stop and reflect on this enough.

Even if you live in a cultural wasteland (like I do), you can spend enough time online to convince yourself that everyone likes the music you do. That Sufjan Steven’s Illinois sold like hot cakes. That Rachel Stevens was the pop sensation of 2006. But it’s simply not true.

In my town (and in yours too possibly), all the girls are getting around in black-and-white-polka-dot dresses. They look like The Pipettes but I doubt they even know who Rose, Gwenno, and Riot Becki are. I could play them “Your Kisses Are Wasted on Me” and all I may get is a blank stare. The dresses may be “in,” but Phil Spector-revival girl-group pop isn’t.

Similarly, every man and his blog are talking about Beirut and the album Gulag Orkestar. I love it, but then I watched Serbian director Emir Kusturica’s Underground several years ago and wished I had more Balkan brass bands in my life. I’m not normal. The guy sitting next to me at the office could care less about how songs like “Scenic World” fuse the plaintive melodies of Eastern European folk with the rough-edged romanticism of Neutral Milk Hotel and the Magnetic Fields. Ah well.

This morning I tried to listen to the rather precious and cutesy lo-fi group Say Hi to Your Mom with the ears of someone who hasn’t been in torrid affairs with Pedro the Lion and Death Cab for Cutie. I couldn’t do it. Sure, the musicianship is rudimentary and the vocals are weak, but when Eric Elbogen sings about a girl who lives in her own little hipster world creating “Pop Music of the Future,” my heart breaks just a little bit.

Right now, I want to share my music with someone. I want someone to laugh at Say Hi to Your Mom’s reference to “Sunny Day Real Estate’s first record.” Lucky I’ve got the Stypod.

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