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Pop goes the weasel.
Apr. 3rd, 2005 09:26 amI read a short in a magazine this week about the "science" of Popstrology. It's a tongue-in-cheek variation on astrology, that its creator, Ian Van Tuyl, describes as "a system for achieving self awareness through the study of the popular music charts."
What you are, it seems, is predestined by what song was number one on the day of your birth, in concert with the artist that was biggest that year (The author named 1976 "the year of Rod Stewart," but I remember it as the year of Elton and Kiki belting out "Don't Go Breaking my Heart," and also "Afternoon Delight" playing on all the radios, as I spent the summer lazily floating down a drift that fed into Sippewissett Beach. Jumping into that warm shallow water, into mud that felt smooth and clean, and drifting down to the ocean, unmindful of anything or anyone, is the closest that this body's ever come to paradise.)
I guess I can understand why these two elements figure so prominently in the Popstrology equation, but I think there's also another pop phenomenon that also makes an important impression upon your life's destiny. Call it the third part of the equation, the catalyst that adds motion to the mixture. This is, the first record that you actually ever purchased (those born in the 80s might know them as CDs.)
I'm serious. And the thing is, I think of this element as the catalyst, because it's such a deliberate act. The fates have little to do with it. I mean, I can't help it that the number one song of 1965 was "Ticket to Ride," can I? (Although, thank god it was, imagine being the poor saps stuck with "Tie a Yellow Ribbon."). On the other hand, the act of purchasing your first album is something that is a reflection of your soul. It's not quite the same as the albums that your parents picked up for you as Christmas presents, because it involves spending your own money (or at least, the $10 that Aunt Doris had taped to the inside of a Christmas card). It requires you making the journey to an actual record store, and sifting through the bins and stacks, and choosing against hundreds of other colorful albums. You're using your freedom of choice to select something that says something about who you are, or at least, what you think is cool.
I remember my first album. It was October 1980. I was a late bloomer, a sophomore in high school. The album I chose was ( Read more... )
What you are, it seems, is predestined by what song was number one on the day of your birth, in concert with the artist that was biggest that year (The author named 1976 "the year of Rod Stewart," but I remember it as the year of Elton and Kiki belting out "Don't Go Breaking my Heart," and also "Afternoon Delight" playing on all the radios, as I spent the summer lazily floating down a drift that fed into Sippewissett Beach. Jumping into that warm shallow water, into mud that felt smooth and clean, and drifting down to the ocean, unmindful of anything or anyone, is the closest that this body's ever come to paradise.)
I guess I can understand why these two elements figure so prominently in the Popstrology equation, but I think there's also another pop phenomenon that also makes an important impression upon your life's destiny. Call it the third part of the equation, the catalyst that adds motion to the mixture. This is, the first record that you actually ever purchased (those born in the 80s might know them as CDs.)
I'm serious. And the thing is, I think of this element as the catalyst, because it's such a deliberate act. The fates have little to do with it. I mean, I can't help it that the number one song of 1965 was "Ticket to Ride," can I? (Although, thank god it was, imagine being the poor saps stuck with "Tie a Yellow Ribbon."). On the other hand, the act of purchasing your first album is something that is a reflection of your soul. It's not quite the same as the albums that your parents picked up for you as Christmas presents, because it involves spending your own money (or at least, the $10 that Aunt Doris had taped to the inside of a Christmas card). It requires you making the journey to an actual record store, and sifting through the bins and stacks, and choosing against hundreds of other colorful albums. You're using your freedom of choice to select something that says something about who you are, or at least, what you think is cool.
I remember my first album. It was October 1980. I was a late bloomer, a sophomore in high school. The album I chose was ( Read more... )
