If you trace the trajectory of your taste, map the peaks and valleys and the meandering path of interest, you'll find that what you listen to and what you love is the sum of its tributaries - all the introductions and obsessions and adorations of others. That is, if you're me. I believe this is true of everyone in some way, but because of my particular blend of enthusiasm and malleability, I can trace all these branches to their sources, and attribute this chunk of my record collection to that boy with the pretty eyes, and this fleeting flirtation with whatever genre to the badass best friend I had for a week in college, and this square centimeter of my heart devoted solely to one specific song to the boy who formerly occupied that space.
In the end, they all just opened doors and no one is responsible for what came through but me, because music has always been mine, and I'm not the kind of girl to delete a band from my playlist because I went to their show with a boy who later broke my heart. But it's curious, really, like watching a chemical reaction and remembering all the specific ingredients that made those flames such a vivid shade of blue. And it's also the reason that the things I come to by myself - the things I fall in love with on my own, without initiation or guidance - become the things I absolutely love the most.
It happened first with Toad the Wet Sprocket - they were the first band I came to independently, without my parents or my sister to guide me. They were the first band that I loved alone, and I loved them fiercely and selfishly because of that, and even after they faded the way old favorites do, it was enough to bring me to tears years later when I saw them in college, and enough to bring me to "you changed my life" speechlessness years even later when I drunkenly shook Glen Phillips' hand in the half-empty Basement.
It happened again a few weeks into my first year of college, when I did my first truly independent thing after moving to Boston and went to see Gomez by myself at the Paradise Rock Club.
And it happened a third time a year after moving to Nashville, still sans show-going friends in 2004, when I ventured to 12th and Porter alone to see an Austin band I was vaguely familiar with called Spoon. I bought two of their albums at the merch table that night, but what I really went home with was a new favorite band. And they were that much shinier and exciting because they had the glow of personal discovery.
Today Spoon releases their seventh studio album, Transference, which is their third new release since I've counted them amongst my favorites. Any review I could possibly offer wouldn't be a review at all, so you're getting this instead. Suffice it to say I don't think they're a favorite that will fade any time soon.
"Who Makes Your Money"
"I Saw the Light"