I read somewhere that Americans lose interest in discovering new music, on average, at the age of 35. I’m what they refer to as “mature,” or in gay dating apps lingo, a “daddy,” and I’m just as interested in new music now as when I was in college, so I must be skewing that number upwards.
In the late 70s and early 80s you could hear the newest and coolest music on KROQ, served up in a pop rotation format, with DJs that had funny and surreal things to say. I remember bringing home the first Psychedelic Furs record and tripping out to the austere Steve Lillywhite production, the exotic glamor of the frosty drums, a doorway to an enchanted, minimalist winter wonderland a million miles away.
There’s nothing like discovering a great new band just as they’re hitting their stride, and there are new ones coming up all the time — the difference is that these days there are a million opinions and no trustworthy arbiters of taste, so instead of consulting Melody Maker, my weekly Bible of what was new and good, I sift through tons of new music myself.
It’s crazy how much amazing, pleasure-center stimulating (especially when high on edibles) grooviness comes out every week, and also that if I wasn’t digging for it I would have zero chance to soul-merge with it. These days you’re out there on your own — the once-mighty British music press is reduced to the vapid cheerleading at what’s left of NME, and don’t get me started on Pitchfork and their arbitrarily engineered, decimal-pointed ratings. Not that I don’t read their bougie pontificating nearly every day.