Cassettes & Chocolate Milk

It would appear that there is a neverending cavalcade of my old musical loves, making their way through Melbourne town. As hoardes of people rush out to purchase tickets to see bands like Bloc Party, Lily Allen, Patrick Wolf, Maximo Park, the Long Blondes, Arctic Monkeys (&c &c &c), I feel so disillusioned about these bands I loved so long ago. At the same time, I feel a bit sick that I identify with that incredibly crass indie cliché. You know, that jaded music lover who claims she "knew the band before they were famous". But I can't help but think that these feelings run deeper than mere territorial glory-mongering.

I guess the truth is that that music represents a time when I had so much more than I have now. For one thing, I had a regular radio show. I had opportunities to talk to these artists. They were tenacious and nervous unknown music lovers, just like me. They were sensitive about their work but also, they longed for exposure. I miss loving these bands with my old friends too. I miss talking about these artists for hours and hours with them. I miss that personal and musical inspiration of two years ago, when we found ourselves at the forefront of a musical era, alone and happy.

Every time I see one of those Radar bands splattered across Melbourne street-press, it reminds me of how I lost it all. But as much as I feel anger for the hype and excessive exposure of these bands, I don't feel that I can harbour any true resentment for any of them. I don't think I can have the capacity to hate them. They remind me of my vicarious British existence.. and a time when all was right with the world.


In the days when you were hopelessly poor, I just liked you more...