Sinister: who really wears terrycloth underwear?

Thu Mar 1 16:46:07 GMT 2001

It’s a strange thing to find oneself addicted. I’ve been addicted many times 
before to many different things (well, maybe not to so many things… unless 
you count people), but only once before to a band. Now that I’m back in the 
land of the musically obsessed, I remember how much I loved mentally mixing 
the songs by the band of my favor (really makes no different who it was—a 
different music, a different life) to create a seamless soundtrack to my 
daily doings.

My name is Jeffrey… and this is my first post.

I first heard the band we all love on a jukebox in a bar that doesn’t exist 
anymore in San Francisco. I had read a review of Boy with the Arab Strap in 
Rolling Stone and decided to have a go at it when I was choosing my 
pinball-playing music… I remember enjoying the song I played a great deal. I 
think I might have chosen Brilliant Career, though it could as well have 
been Is It Wicked… I was distracted because I was excited about the girl I 
was dating and was telling my friends all about her. After I left the bar, I 
didn’t really go back to the band for almost two years…

Then came Napster.

I know that opinions amongst this community range across the spectrum, so 
please do not take the previous sentence as any sort of incitement to launch 
into another drag-out on the merits and evils of Napster. I merely mean that 
when I remembered the band’s name (likely after watching High Fidelity for 
the umpteenth time), I was able to take their music for a test drive.

That was in November, before Thanksgiving. That was when I started to fall 
for them in a meaningful way. The song was My Wandering Days Are Over, which 
I had picked off the list simply because it sounded like it would match my 
mood of late, which is to say gently happy and slightly melancholy at the 
same time—I believe “winsome” might be appropriate. As I contemplated the 
inevitable arrival of my mid-late-20s (currently I am only in my 
mid-mid-20s), the song seemed to invigorate and comfort me at the same time; 
I could wrap myself in it and still have room to dance. But even more than 
that, I felt like I had finally found a band that wasn’t afraid to sound… 
pretty.

I bought Tigermilk the day after Thanksgiving…But it was a bit before dawn 
on New Year’s Day, standing alone on the fire escape, headphones on, smoking 
a cigarette to warm myself from the inside that I recognized that what I was 
feeling for the music pumping into my head was nothing short of love. And a 
love for the music almost by matter of logic (I say almost, as I am sure 
that some of you would deign to challenge my logic—have at it, you’ll get no 
rejoinder from me) implies a love of the band. No, I don’t love all songs 
equally… but I can forgive the deficient ones. Even laugh at them. There’s a 
whole album to listen to…

I don’t know why I would possibly expect any of you to care about any of 
this, other than I expect—if my wordsmithing in this effort was halfway 
successful to keep you interested—that some of you can relate to my 
experience. Since I don’t foresee a west coast concert engagement anytime 
soon (though I have pledged to fly anywhere in these United States to see 
them should they be so kind as to even step foot inside them), I guess I am 
hoping that some of you might say hello and introduce yourselves to me… you 
see, I’m rather shy. And perhaps even a tad lonely…

And if any of you happen to live in San Francisco… well, by all means please 
say hello.

Thanks for reading this far… and I suppose I’ll see you on the playground.
jeffrey
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