Confessions from a ‘class I indie kid’

I’ll admit it, I read Pitchfork on occasion.

Today, I opened the Web site only to discover a feature on Portastatic, one of my favorite local Durham bands. With a bit of disdain, I thought, “Yeah, but I heard of them first.”

I quickly realized I am one of those people. You know the type.

They sit in independently owned coffee shops and talk about what bands they’ve seen and the top life-changing albums in their collection.

They make arguments like, “It’s not as good as their first album,” and “Liz Phair was okay before she sold out.”

I stand before you and plead guilty to all of these crimes, having committed them all in the past two weeks.

In addition, I’ve openly bragged about how my cousin recorded an album with Dave Grohl and repeatedly told the story about eating burritos with Shayne

O’Neil after he rescued me from a flat tire in a very scary part of town.

Although it’s totally gross, I’m kind of proud of the time I threw up dangerously close to Doc Watson in the emergency room waiting area.

I love that at one point, I had Scott Avett’s cell phone number.

I am class I indie kid, and I am very lame.

My life of crime began at about age 15 under the influence of my cool older cousin from Los Angeles.

She made me a mixed CD filled with Granddaddy, The Beta Band and Stephen Malkmus.

I loved every single track and played that CD over and over and over. The handwritten playlist became my Bible.

It went downhill at age 17 when I bought a 1982 Volvo station wagon and slapped it with ridiculous stickers about environmentalism.

It got worse when I started playing The Decemberists loudly while driving around my station wagon.

Of all my indie crimes, the worst of the worst is one for which I cannot be forgiven.

I got a job making bread at an organic, vegan bakery and coffee shop, and then started hanging out in a different coffee shop across town where I read

Bukowski and Kerouac and perfected the way I ordered “drip coffee, room for cream.”

Latley, it’s been my love for Jeffrey Lewis and Brook Pridemore and a host of other folk punk bands from Brooklyn.

I’m a hardened criminal in corduroy pants.

So lock me away to a world of top 40 hits and take away my Chuck Taylors. Burn my thrift store cardigans. Break my mixed CDs coated in Sharpie marker.

Forbid me to ever set foot in a smoky bar again.

TrackBack URI for this entry

Comments (0)

Show/Hide comments