Indie guilt

CMJ is upon us, and I'm wrestling with the fact that I really don't care. To be honest, it sort of snuck up on me -- it's almost a month earlier than it was last year, or the year before that. As much as I love hearing new music, this love is tempered by my distaste for standing packed like sardines in tiny rock clubs (don't get me wrong; I love tiny rock clubs, just not the sardine-packing), when my fellow audience-mates are irritating hipsters and NYU undergrads who talk over the music and spill beer on my shoes. Wow, I sound like such a grumpy old fogey! As I sped down Allen Street in a cab last night, I spied the gaggles of indie rock kids queuing up for the 1AM shows and felt relieved that I'd spent my evening not with them, but in the company of O.C. Season 3, episode 2 at a friend's place uptown.

Because this is New York. All these bands are bound to come back in a month or two, right?

Here's a deep, dark little secret: I sometimes hate going to concerts in New York. I don't mean my friends' bands, of course, or other smaller bands of the CMJ caliber, but if it's a group who's reasonably well-known, I often can't be bothered, even if I like them. For one thing, shows sell out in the blink of an eye here. I'm willing to bet that I could buy my ticket at the door for an Arcade Fire show in my hometown, but here? Scoring a place in the audience involves advance research, and often lots of money (my rule of thumb: no show should cost more than $50, unless it's a) a multiple billing or b) U2). Of course, then I hear how David Bowie showed up to play with Arcade Fire in Central Park last night and I cry sad, sad tears because I wasn't there. Must start doing better research! Must sign up for mailing lists and visit band websites!

Here's another deep, dark little secret: I'm blogging at the office! ooOOOOooh.