There was a time when my preferences were absolute. Without a sliver of doubt, Eddie Vedder, John Lennon, and Layne Stanley were the gods I worshipped, the rebellious sound of the Northwest, dark wave and classic rock were the soundtrack of my disenchanted youth, the White Album, “Tomorrow Never Knows,” and “A Day in the Life” were the spark to my internal engine, Pulp Fiction was the best, fucking film ever made, Hermann Hesse was my spiritual animal whose Demian roused me from my bovine slumber to reject the phony ideals of the world, and MTV was the education that pushed me into new worlds and infinite discoveries. Hell, I cut my teeth on 120 Minutes and Headbanger’s Ball, lapping up all the alternative and underground music like a greedy whore, pregnant with curiosity, and a zeal for the revolution found in the sweet chaos and raw beauties. Every night was a revelation, a chance to celebrate the sui generis of restless souls. Every encounter with an old friend was a comfort and an aegis against the real world. Now, Spotify, iTunes, and others have taken over that function. Fuck, I had to appropriate cassettes from the local Wal-Mart or Woolworth to own the music, and that was hard, fucking work. It took dedication and the willingness to ignore social mores. Now, all one has to do is turn to his/her favorite application to stream the songs he/she wants to listen to. Does anyone even listen to a whole album anymore? Does anyone reflect on the whole collection of songs as a whole statement? Or does one feast on the cadaver piece by piece, just the choice cuts that are in demand and/or ubiquitous in the social scape? Does one even fall in love anymore?

In my youth, a new album from Pearl Jam, with their promises of catharsis the fix to my vices, was an earth-shattering event, Kurt Cobain’s suicide, a kindred soul lost to darkness, was a cold shank to the gut, and the three guitar blasts before the chorus of “Creep” was the beginning of my love affair with Radiohead. What do the kids have today? YouTube? Reality TV? Social Media Personalities? The fucking Kardashians? I pity the souls who do not get to experience the thrill of falling in love every night with a brand new lover. No Bikini Kill. No Tool. No Sleater Kinney. No At the Drive In. Indeed, I discovered the white noise of Sonic Youth on a late Friday night on Alternative Nation, a band so anti-commercial that it would be next to impossible to unearth in these media-saturated times. Finding them on Spotify would not even be a consideration, but an act of divine intervention, a random, fateful encounter. Fuck, I discovered The Smashing Pumpkins before Siamese Dreams, a band with the potential to be the voice of humanity, a band who once reflected this struggle we call life. It is such a shame that they lost their magic and Billy Corgan turned out to be an asshole. Unfortunately, they have squandered their promise and now echo our plastic soul and the artificial reality of corporate consumables.

But, I digress. To get back to my original argument, my preferences were so absolute that I closed myself off to everything else that went beyond the realm of rock music. I said no Tejano music and the fervent flames found in Selena, no to the pure joy of Aaliyah and TLC, no to the genius of Uncle Tupelo and Missy Elliot, no to the power of the Fugees and Outkast, and no to the smooth honey of Annie Lennox and Sade. Definitely, it was a fuck no to likes of Whitney Houston, Britney Spears, Destiny’s Child, and Prodigy, and the only reason I listened to Madonna, Janet Jackson, and Prince is because I was nurtured from a young age on their stylings. But slowly, and surely, I broke out of this prison I built for myself like a baby chick breaking through the egg shell, reaching through the crack, covered and choking on afterbirth, my beady, black eyes first seeing darkness and then shades of darkness until I took my first gasp of sweet air, born into a brave new world. It started with Lauryn Hill. Watching her “Doo Wop” video was a holy epiphany, and The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill emerged from the quagmire of Total Request Live as my red pill. I was stunned, unable to register the dynamis flowing from the song like thunder shattering silence, lighting breaking the black sky. The world would never be the same again. Soon came Rihanna, and then Beyonce. Lady Gaga. Katy Perry. Robyn. And then there was LCD Soundsystem. The fusion of disparate genres drove me to the machinery of Ladytron, Hot Chip, TV on the Radio, Goldfrapp, and so forth. And then I dived back even further into the vast sea to rediscover old Michael Jackson, Donna Summers, the Bee Gees, Chaka Khan, Erasure, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, etc… Indeed, my unconditional inclinations imploded, the tired prejudices swept away by an ever-growing wave. One encounter led to a multitude. It’s never ending. I used to loathe “Dancing Queen,” but now it is the sweet morphine that melts my bones. Now, I will admit that I don’t have the most diverse taste in music and I can be quite the music elitist, but I’m continuously widening my vision and I am open to embrace whatever may come.

Which leads to my current conundrum: expanding my horizons has made it quite difficult to ascertain my favorite band/artist, songs, and so forth? Without deliberation, Tool, Deftones, and Radiohead strike like lighting, they are my holy trinity and everything else falls in somewhere in the amorphous ocean. Still, where does that leave the celestial constellations that I used to venerate or the new formations that sway the tides within me. Where does that leave Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Alice in Chains, and Soundgarden, those mighty titans who guided me through my adolescence? Where does that leave the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Pink Floyd, David Bowie and Fleetwood Mac, the old vanguard that continues to inspire me? Where does that leave the genius of PJ Harvey, Bjork, LCD Soundsystem, Sleater Kinney, the Strokes, Interpol, the Mars Volta, Sigur Ros, Nick Cave, NIck Drake, The Cure, Depeche Mode, Joy Division, the Bauhaus, REM, Opeth…? The song goes on forever. Each of these bands/artists reflect a piece of me, each is a part of me. And I can’t even begin to start considering favorite albums, much less favorite songs. Well, I can, but it would be quite an undertaking. As it stands, I am quite oblivious to the new bands/artists, the new gods worshipped by the current generation. Instead, I find myself gravitating towards old favorites and I find myself discovering old music versus new. Perhaps, I have subconsciously built another prison around me. Yet, the heart beats for what it bleeds for, and though I no longer have absolute preferences, I have an ocean of stars to wish upon, an ocean of discoveries to drown in.