Song of the day – 354: Glass Rock

Fuck it. I like EVERYTHING now. There’s no turning back.

When I say everything, let’s be sensible here. There are still places off-limits, where I refuse to tread for fear of grey creeping into my soul.

I totally take Wallace’s point about reproduction, homage and the law of diminishing returns. But my belief I am prepared to suspend right now, hovering somewhere above purple-flecked clouds, humming winsomely to myself the song of the right and the song of the just. I know that I’d never of liked the following … INSERT YOUR OWN FAVOURITE BAND NAMES … if I’d been too harsh on pernicious influence, and I also know that sometimes bands can transcend that influence and sometimes they can dismally replicate it and fail to break through, and I know that I have no fucking idea who the influence on the following is anyway, although I could have a good stab if I wanted to start being a critic and stop following my heart, not that the two are mutually exclusive, far from it, indeed I believe you can’t be the first without the second which is why Wallace’s arguments always seem so compelling to me of course …

Glass Rock, then. Somewhere along the line I’m reminded of an incident on the Canadian border that occurred two decades back: immigration official questioning me closely about my disparate journeys, myself producing plane ticket after plane ticket to prove the veracity of my story, him reaching over and grabbing my coat pocket and asking, “How many more have you got in there?” Then he orders my suitcase off the plane, and starts going through my papers, one by one. Slowly. Comes across a press release for Cowboy Junkies.

“What’s this then?” he asks suspiciously.
It’s a press release, I reply wearily. I told you already. I’m a music critic. I’m going to Toronto to interview them … light suddenly dawns. Wait, I say. Have you heard of them?
“Of course,” he replies, smiling.
Everything’s suddenly OK now.
“Say hello to Margo for me.”

So I walk around Toronto with holes in the knees of my jeans. It’s minus 25 outside. I get frostbite whenever I stop at traffic lights.

This music is the type of music the word ‘beautiful’ was invented for. And it knows it.

by Everett True

My name is Everett True. I am a music critic. This is what I do. I criticise music. The clue is in my job description – music critic. I do not consider myself a journalist, as I do not research or report hard news. I do not consider myself a commentator as I believe that everyone should be a participant. I criticise people and in return I am not surprised if other people criticise me. It is part of the whole deal of being in the public arena. I am Everett True. Believe in me and I have power like a God. Quit believing in me and I no longer exist.