I Saw Your (Popular Music) Face In a Crowded Place (From the Perspective of A World Traveler)
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
But it's time to face the truth. I will never be with you. And I don't know what to do.
The hardest thing about traveling is not, as I may have argued in the past, a group Israeli backpackers sitting next to you while you're trying to write copy and boasting to three thick-necked Irish women about how tough they are after serving in the IDF. It is never knowing which of the totally awesome songs topping the charts in whatever country you're in will be popular in the States, or what songs are becoming cultural touchstones in the states while you're abroad.
For example, when I arrived home after four months out of "the loop" last year, one of the first things that happened to me was hearing a new song called "My Humps" on the radio and trying to tell someone about it, only to have them roll their eyes. Their eyes. Their eyes their eyes their eyes.
The only music I got on a regular basis from New Zealand radio was the entirety of the White Stripes discography and a song by a Kiwi guy with the awesome name of Donavon Frankenheimer called "If It Don't Matter To You." The thesis of this song was that caring about things was a) an obstacle to world peace and b) probably the lamest thing you could do with your god-given intellect.
I was convinced - absolutely convinced - this song would follow me to the States. I prepared a smug little grin to show my friend(s?) when they heard it for the first time and I got to explain to them that I was five months ahead of them on Donovan Frankenheimer worship. Then I would show them my poster, which features prominently Donavon Frankenheimer and his huge, huge moustache, which is the secret reason I am growing a beard in Australia. Seriously, this song was so catchy and great, it didn't seem possible that it wouldn't be a world-wide hit. But alas - and people who know me know I don't use the word alas lightly - the only place it lives on now is in my heart and on my iPod.
My initial assumption upon hearing James Blunt's terrific song "You're Beautiful, You're Beautiful, You're Beautiful" on several grocery store soundtracks in New Zealand was that James Blunt was an Australian and that I had better load up on his honey-dripping vocals while down under, or I'd face serious withdrawal upon returning state side. But it turns out that "You're beautiful..." is a hit in the US as well, according to the iTunes music store. So you never can tell, I guess.
Anyway, my beard is coming along nicely. I am now treated appreciably worse by service people than I would be if clean shaven. This never fails to prompt indignation, a feeling which lasts until I see myself in the mirror and am forced by the prudence that has become my hallmark to agree with those who despise me and the daunting aesthetic experiment I have made my face into.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
But it's time to face the truth. I will never be with you. And I don't know what to do.
The hardest thing about traveling is not, as I may have argued in the past, a group Israeli backpackers sitting next to you while you're trying to write copy and boasting to three thick-necked Irish women about how tough they are after serving in the IDF. It is never knowing which of the totally awesome songs topping the charts in whatever country you're in will be popular in the States, or what songs are becoming cultural touchstones in the states while you're abroad.
For example, when I arrived home after four months out of "the loop" last year, one of the first things that happened to me was hearing a new song called "My Humps" on the radio and trying to tell someone about it, only to have them roll their eyes. Their eyes. Their eyes their eyes their eyes.
The only music I got on a regular basis from New Zealand radio was the entirety of the White Stripes discography and a song by a Kiwi guy with the awesome name of Donavon Frankenheimer called "If It Don't Matter To You." The thesis of this song was that caring about things was a) an obstacle to world peace and b) probably the lamest thing you could do with your god-given intellect.
I was convinced - absolutely convinced - this song would follow me to the States. I prepared a smug little grin to show my friend(s?) when they heard it for the first time and I got to explain to them that I was five months ahead of them on Donovan Frankenheimer worship. Then I would show them my poster, which features prominently Donavon Frankenheimer and his huge, huge moustache, which is the secret reason I am growing a beard in Australia. Seriously, this song was so catchy and great, it didn't seem possible that it wouldn't be a world-wide hit. But alas - and people who know me know I don't use the word alas lightly - the only place it lives on now is in my heart and on my iPod.
My initial assumption upon hearing James Blunt's terrific song "You're Beautiful, You're Beautiful, You're Beautiful" on several grocery store soundtracks in New Zealand was that James Blunt was an Australian and that I had better load up on his honey-dripping vocals while down under, or I'd face serious withdrawal upon returning state side. But it turns out that "You're beautiful..." is a hit in the US as well, according to the iTunes music store. So you never can tell, I guess.
Anyway, my beard is coming along nicely. I am now treated appreciably worse by service people than I would be if clean shaven. This never fails to prompt indignation, a feeling which lasts until I see myself in the mirror and am forced by the prudence that has become my hallmark to agree with those who despise me and the daunting aesthetic experiment I have made my face into.
posted by Jeremy at 3:31 PM
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