It’s all this damned techno that I listen to. Actually, I’m typically at home working in my pajamas; But by the sound of it, you’d think I was working in some windowless cubicle at Barney’s or something. I can’t figure it out—You know the old saw: “Television will rot your brain;” Personally, I’m more concerned about Hotel Costes, Cafe Del Mar, and a jillion other fluff electronica series that I —for some reason—continue to put on as my work soundtrack. The other day, I was on the verge of apologizing to Lucy.
If you’re married and/or work at home, you could find yourself in the same boat: “Honey, I’m sorry about all the electronica…”
Truth be told, there is a reason, or at least, an excuse: I’m gradually aspiring to be a snobby art gallery DJ. With some success, too. So I act like I have to listen to this stuff, y’know, to keep up. I’m still embarrassed sometimes.
One of the finest (non-electronic) tracks last year was The New Pornographers‘ “Sing Me Spanish Techno.” Now, nobody knows what Carl Newman is talking about at any given moment; even he claims the lyrics are frequently non-narrative. But I like to think that song refers to a couple of friends: One hates techno, the other loves techno. His favorite (of late—because it’s always ‘of late’) is Spanish techno, in particular. His techno-hating friend is put out over the fact that all techno sounds roughly the same and —it’s not even music, right?— issues the challenge: “Okay. Sing me ‘Spanish techno.'” Exactly.
Somebody get me an electric guitar, quick.
full disclosure: this post written while “grooving” to the sounds of Man Ray Vol. 4