Thus far the Record Desk has mostly been splashing about in the shallow end of the pool – I haven’t really taken on an album universally considered to one of the all-time, all-time greats. I suppose that it is often very hard to get inside a “great” record and illuminate it from within. Many times these are albums that come to us second- or even third-hand as recommendations from friends who embraced the record after some critic hyped it based on some other alpha critic’s review. Such has been my experience with Loveless. It’s one of those albums that you hear about more than you actually hear. It’s widely considered a left-of-the-dial classic – one that set the bar for inventive, non-cheesy guitar sounds.
If you throw a rock at bunch of shaggy kids in American Apparel gear, you’ll likely hit someone whose band *totally* has an ambient My Bloody Valentine thing going on. Of course, this claim is likely complete bullshit – this kid’s band probably sounds like U2 or the Cure. However, My Bloody Valentine is a much more acceptable band to talk about as an influence. They signify a certain kind of cool – cool that is decadent and European and detached from issues of pop and commerce. In short, invoking My Bloody Valentine means that you have the *right* idea of what is cool. Your sensibilities are in order. You are not some kind of “rawk” obsessed meathead. Basically, name dropping My Bloody Valentine proves that you are the sort of person who should be forming a band.
Some bands (like My Bloody Valentine, Television, the Fall, and even the Velvet Underground) provide a shorthand for musicians who want to discuss aesthetics and rule out the wrong kind of collaborators, but who don’t wish to appear snooty or discriminatory. And because fans of and dabblers in popular music are pack animals, pretty soon everyone learns the new codes and starts prattling on about how Loveless and Marquee Moon changed their lives – giving rise to a process of I’m calling inflation of influence.
For instance, a 13-year-old kid in 1993 might have bought a guitar because he was really into Siamese Dream. However, by 2002 this kid is out in the great wide hip world telling everyone how he wants to form a band that sounds just like Loveless. He doesn’t want to fess up that it was the wholly cornball Smashing Pumpkins who rocked his world. Instead, he uses his influences’ influence as a cover. Our imaginary kid doesn’t want folks to know that he once got his kicks from the corporate FM radio monster – an admission that might peg him as some kind of possible Nickleback sympathizer. So, our imaginary kid bites his lip and pretends to worship Kevin Shields instead of uncool Billy Corgan.
I’m not saying that no one loves Loveless or Hex Induction Hour based on first-hand experience. I’m just saying that most people lie about how much they love these sorts of records. I know because *I’ve* lied about loving these sorts of records. I mean, I like Loveless and I actually really do love Marquee Moon, but not in that crazy, bloodied teenage way that you *really* love your favorite albums. These smartipance albums are a fine diversion after you’ve memorized every blip of “Baba O’Riley” and every squawk of “Heart Shaped Box,” but they aren’t the sort of things that you love deep down in the your adolescent gut-pit. Loveless and other “important” records like it present interesting ideas and new twists on the possibilities lurking about the fringes rock and roll.
Of course, I too am using Loveless as shorthand – in this case for a certain kind of album that everyone has decided to treat as a classic despite the fact that it was never super popular or embraced on a massive scale. I’m not saying that it isn’t an interesting or, hell, even an enjoyable album. I’m simply admitting that I almost never listen to it, and I almost never hear anyone else listening to it either. Loveless strikes me as a piece of “required listening,” not too different from so-called “classics” that you are expected to read in literature class.
Which brings us to our thrilling conclusion – I’m not sure if high school literature class is the best model for pop music appreciation. The wrong teacher or the wrong syllabus can ruin reading for many people. By extension, the wrong tastes or the wrong standards being forced on pop listeners and pop participants can kind of make pop music less fun and more like a never-ending struggle to keep up with what sorts of things make for proper listening.
One of the reasons that the Record Desk exists is to honestly assess my relationship with my big, stupid collection of tapes, CDs, and LPs – to come to terms with what pop music means to me and how I might mean in relation to it. I figured that my plan to write about EVERYTHING I own would force me to acknowledge the “uncool” corners of my listening habits. Under this premise, I wouldn’t be able to hide behind the internet and pretend that my life plays out to a continuous soundtrack of Zen Arcade and Here Come the Warm Jets. In time, I must come to terms with that Bryan Adams’ greatest hits record and my old copy of They Might Be Giants’ Flood.
So, where does this leave us with Loveless? I suppose I just don’t like it that much. It’s okay, but I seem to go years without listening to it. I think I may have bought it just so I’d seem like the sort of person whose band might be inspired by My Bloody Valentine. It’s a pretty record in its way. But I actually enjoy listening to Siamese Dream more. So that’s it – my confession. I don’t really love My Bloody Valentine. I probably only pretended to be into them so that I’d seem cool. I have absolutely no memories or ideas or concerns tied up with Loveless. It’s simply something I know about. It exists merely as rock and roll homework. Having listened to it several times in preparation for this entry, I found neither fresh insight nor newly compelling bit of sound – just that same old wonderful guitar woosh and several washes of sound masquerading as songs.
