Q. Who invented Rock’n’Roll, the Americans or the British?
A. Who cares?

Q. Who were better, The Beatles or The Stones?
A. Does anyone give a toss?

Q. Were The Police actually any good?
A. I’ve absolutely no idea.

But… I do care, I do give a toss and I most certainly do have opinion concerning the musical quality of The Police – or at least it’s my calling to sound like I do. You see, I am a master debater (!), an aficionado of oratory discourse and, most of all, a belligerent SOB who will argue with you for days about musical topics I neither know nothing of nor care anything about. I do it for nothing more than sport. Over the years I have honed my oratory skill, as an ancient warrior would practice his swordsmanship. I can block, parry, feign and attack with equal skill and grace but I tire of the warrior’s life so beginning this very day I am training an apprentice. So, run to the bar, grab another pitcher and prepare yourself for your training in musical debates of the most pointless order.

I have a few rules. Firstly, I will never make the first move. I will never ask the question that starts the battle. As Sun Tzu says, “He who wishes to fight must first count the cost”. As I say, “There’s no fun in being the spider to the fly; be the fly who derives perverse pleasure from ripping the legs, one by one, from its opponent.” (Don’t worry, you’re a spider, they’ll grow back). So please, choose a weapon and pick a topic:

Stop! What kind of conversation opener is that? It is wrong on so many levels. For starters, the question has nowhere to go. If I were in a good mood I’d probably answer:

But most probably I’ll answer in a way most befitting the quality of the question:

I would then feel bad about being rude so the best I could add would be a consolatory “Sorry” leaving it ambiguous as to if I’m sorry for not liking them or if I’m sorry for you for liking them. In any case, the conversation is over, you have no way to recover. Sure, you could try:

But now you’re just trying to get the last word in, you are off balance and your weapon is down. I’ll let you stumble harmlessly past me, I don’t need to defend my position on Dashboard Confessional but apparently you do.

Let’s go back and regroup. As a point of personal safety, you need to divorce yourself from the outcome of the conversation. This is especially important if you suspect you may actually loose a leg or two in the upcoming battle. Try again:

Bravo. This is almost a good opening salvo. Note how you have removed yourself from the question, no longer is it your opinion but now it’s the opinion of others and others can be wrong without jeopardizing your standing or credibility in the whole matter. I also like your inclusion of both the press and public, both can be wrong but rarely at the same time. If you play your cards right you’ll end up siding with the winning army one way or another. Now you’re just missing a point of contention, a relatively controversial counterpoint that will act as the bait. If you know your opponent well enough pick something that may induce a choking fit on the upcoming swallow of beer. Give it another go:

Whoa there. That’s quite a gamble you’ve made with that last statement. I’m no slouch when it comes to Tom Verlaine but such a reference coming out of left field puts me on my guard. Either you know a lot about Television, potentially more than I do which will never do, or you know diddly about them and you’re relying on a snippet of information gleaned from an overheard conversation during yesterday’s bus ride into work. I smell a trap and I’m not taking the bait:

Bam! Thwak! Cracka! Notice how I just took you down? In three sentences I compared you to a sexually inept teenager, stated I’m so much cooler than you could ever be because I owned the record (on vinyl no less) probably years before you knew who Television were, I’ve had multiple girlfriends (of which at least one was credibly psycho) and I snowboard and have done at least as long as owning that record. Finally, like all good warriors I parried your blow and sent you off in an opposite direction by changing the subject away from music to snow sports. But this isn’t war; it’s a training exercise so I’ll give you another chance:

Nice. Now we’re starting a conversation. I like the open ended last statement. It’s impersonal and leaves room for a great volley back and forth. Here we go, I respond:

Now, I’m trying hard to be a good master to you, my apprentice, so before I let you respond I’m going to give you a few pointers to my strategy. Firstly, it’s obvious I’ve not listened to the record. If I had I would have name-dropped at least the first single off the CD. Secondly, notice how I’m trying to change the subject ever so slightly by offering to name five good releases from last year. Probably five releases I know something about and I’ll make at least four of them albums I know you’ve never heard. And finally, observe my contingency plan (in case of emergency, break glass). I’m going to lure you into some stupid conversation about generations and music from which we’ll inevitably end up at the late sixties and then we’ll have to mention Bob Dylan and I know lots and lots about Bob Dylan because I’ve just finished reading his new autobiography. (Oh – and I know you haven’t, you would have told me earlier because you know I like Bob Dylan.) As Mr. Sun Tzu said, “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

Admittedly, that’s a lot to come at a new student with but I feel you can attempt a decent block and counter:

BAMM! I was wrong. That’s you on the floor, your nose bleeding and a dull ache from the kidneys you’ll be peeing blood from later tonight. Damn, I’m good. And with that, my little sparrow, your lesson for today draws to its unfortunate but inevitable conclusion. I’ll leave you with this from Master Tzu:

And from me, his most humble student, I offer this:

1) Concepts find themselves
Thinking of a “neat” concept up-front invariably leads to strained or woefully predictable selections. For example, a playlist called “Cool Hip Hop from Orlando” will soon run dry and loose it’s direction as your knowledge of the underground scene in Orlando starts to dwindle. Then you’ll be forced to add artists from Kissimmee or butt-rock musicians from Orlando’s suburbs who once semi (and probably badly) rapped in the middle section in one of their songs. In either case, your concept let you down. Inevitably, the concept will widen until you’re left with just “Cool Hip Hop”. Now you are in a world of hurt. Who are you to say who is cool and who isn’t? Undoubtedly you’ll muck it up, miss say The Last Poets or Run DMC and then you’ll loose the respect of everyone and be cast into bad peer rating purgatory.

Concepts find themselves. They live in the moment and are part of the energy created as you start to sequence songs together. Begin by playing DJ. Practice at home, quietly and without upsetting your neighbors. Pick a track, any track and play it. You now have about three and half minutes to find another track that in some way is complimentary or juxtaposed with the track playing. Quick now, last thing you want is dead air. As soon as you have track two playing move track one somewhere safe, you’ll need it again later. Now again, run to your CD rack/computer/vinyl pile and pick track three. It has to work with track two and echo track one. Track four can forget all about track one but has to be responsible for moving the set forward in a direction. The direction? Well, by now a direction is finding itself because with just three and a half minutes to make selections the emotional part of your brain has wrestled control from your, frankly ill-equipped, analytical side and is starting to make choices based on how it feels. Let it find more tracks loosely based on this direction. If it changes direction, go with it, just change gently – don’t shake the baby. Here comes the tricky bit. Humans hate loose endings. We are masters of our universe and must understand everything. If you leave your playlist open ended people will feel cheated. When it’s time to wrap up your little DJ session (and sometimes they go on for days) you have about two to three songs to find the link back to the very first track you played. If you can’t do it, don’t force it. You’ll just have to keep going until you can effortlessly, with integrity and with a small amount of smug self-satisfaction play the first track again. You’re done. Write down the tracks in order, write down your direction and there you have a wonderful playlist worthy of the finest table at La Restaurant d’Culture Popular.

2) Don’t Make Single Artist Playlists
The record company has done that for you. They’re called “Greatest Hits“, “Lost Sides and Rarities” and “The Complete Recordings”

3) Don’t Make Playlists Based on Track Names.
Do not ever, ever, ever create playlists based on a name. For example, “Songs with Cheese In Their Title” will get you thrown out of the restaurant never to return. Similarly, if your lame ass concept is, say, “Summer Songs” try not to pick songs with the word “Summer” in their title. Why on earth would I want to listen to a song that just gave itself away by it’s name? Instead, elude to summer, perhaps in the arrangement, instrumentation, lyric or feel. A great example there would be Cisco Kid by War. It smacks of summer without ever having to mention it. While I’m on the subject of summer, you are allowed one and only one Beach Boys track per summer playlist per year. Please, use this choice wisely and pick something different, like Vegetables from Smiley Smile.

4) You Are Not Making The Playlist For You
If you’re going to publish the damn thing please try and think about the cultural advancement of our species. We’ve been out the trees for quite a while now and are still really struggling with making popular music mean something more than dollars and cents. Inform, educate and entertain your fellow proto-simian and they will, in turn, pick fleas from your back. A good playlist should leave the listener thinking they have discovered something new and not thinking you must be really cool because half the tree is taken up by your record collection. Stop thinking “tracks I like” and start thinking “tracks I think you’d like”.

As we hurtle down the information super highway with our windows down and the stereo blasting please think about littering. You wouldn’t throw your coffee cup out the window along I-5 so please keep the backwash of your high fat, super-sweet triple venti caramel macchiato with almond syrup and extra cream musical selections safely inside your browsing vehicle until you reach a suitable trash receptacle. If you do feel the need to share your beverage, stop the car, find a nice cafe and make it a simple single shot espresso served in a porcelain cup accompanied by great conversation and a feeling of time well spent doing absolutely nothing.

Firstly, it’s not your fault, there’s nothing you could have done. Ever since the mass mergers of the 1970’s when small labels were swallowed by mid-size labels and, in turn, were digested by behemoth conglomerates, your ability to discern quality from crap has been severely hampered. How could you be expected to be objective if an artist is on the TV, their song is backing a new hit movie, your favorite magazine is running a glossy interview and the album cover is on billboards all over town? How can they not be good? They’re everywhere. Surely so many different forms of media can’t be wrong at once. (It is respectfully suggested the reader researches the holdings of companies such as Time Warner, Bertlesmann, and Viacom). You can’t be blamed for taking what you’re given, you’re busy, I know.

Secondly, if you love someone, let them go. It’s OK for rock’n’roll to go. Other music forms have died yet they live on in the hearts of their family and friends. A large number of very well meaning people still love baroque music, gypsy jazz and Appalachian yodeling and carry it close by every day. They are content with listening to old, wonderful recordings and going to the occasional revivalist recital – you should be too. The good news is that you can see still see live music without reigniting those feelings of loss and abandonment from the death of your old friend. There are plenty of exciting new bands around who are doing absolutely nothing new or inspirational and will happily take your money to provide you with that comforting and safe feeling of nostalgia.

Thirdly, you are bound to feel a sense of anger (mainly directed at me). It’s natural and often-as-not the messenger bears the brunt of this. My skin is thick, go ahead, I can take it. Of course I’m full of crap and of course the last Modest Mouse record was a tour-de-force of popular music. And I know Radiohead are the finest band to surface in the last decade and that Death Cab For Cutie have put the indie scene back on the musical map. I know all of this. Think of them as white blood cells zooming round the immune system of popular music, fighting the infection where they can and taking out a few healthy cells out in the process. Trouble is, those white blood cells share the same DNA as their host, they’re essentially the same, they’re derivative and when the sequencing says it’s time for the hearing to go and the eyesight to fade, there’s nothing these brave little cells can do about it.

Now what you need is a shaman, a witch doctor and practitioner of mysterious medicine. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, Mr Jack White. When Jack shakes that Valco Airline shaman stick the forces of nature sit up and listen. The man channels his ancient forebears, Robert Johnson and Blind Lemon Jefferson, into a frenzied collision of salvation and healing. Not since the dark days of Paint It Black and Sympathy For The Devil has bad been so good. The essence of creativity is to deftly and with due reverence take what came before, agitate and add a pinch of mojo, a shake of something indescribable and a few drops of the essence of life. The White Stripes are not the best band on the planet and The Raconteurs are nothing more than a fine facsimile of good times but Jack White, Jack White is the Hoochy Koochy man, the snake charmer and possibly the savior of the moribund art form we call rock’n’roll.

So revel in these last days. Let Gnarls Barkley, Jack Johnson and Nickleback [links intentionally omitted] take you where you want to go (remember to add a tablespoon of Jack White per listen). But heed this well, when old man rock finally departs this mortal coil ask yourself if you were the best friend a genre could have or did you just stand by and watch your best buddy gently expire. By then it will be too late so remember you’ll want your last conversation to be one not of warmth, safety and reconciliation but one of passion, confusion, danger and frenzy. Anything else just ain’t rock’n’roll.

Firstly, if you’re paying 99 cents a song, you’re a fool. You don’t own the music, you think you do but in reality you just bought the modern equivalent of an eight track. Sure it’s easy to cart around but it sounds like crap, has all the glamour of Google’s home page and, when you tire of the music, its resale value is about as much as a “lightly used” chapstick. Coincidently, but strangely not surprising, 99 cents is about the going rate for a record from your neighbor’s yard sale. Actually, it’s marginally more expensive due to the currency issues of dealing with pennies, usually $1 is the settled upon price but, nevertheless, $1 buys you not just one track but around twelve plus pretty pictures, lyrics, personnel listings and, if you’re really lucky, a piece of history especially if the previous owner wrote their name on the sleeve in neat cursive. To this day I’m not sure why people monogrammed their records, it doesn’t happen with used CD’s and it certainly can’t happen with mp3’s but it does provide a sense of tradition and accountability. People that steal music from P2P’s care nothing for the tracks they just acquired, yet it makes me sad when I accidentally drop the needle on Trudy Sherman’s old copy of The Sugercubes’ Life’s Too Good. She looked after it, why can’t I?

I digress, back to the economics and a word on sound quality. Records sound amazing. You probably don’t know this. If you’re under thirty, you’ve probably never heard one and if you’re over thirty you probably can’t remember one. Sometimes they get dirty but a 99-cent (there’s that price again) bottle of rubbing alcohol diluted 1:20 with a 99-cent bottle of deionized water (both available from your local mega-mart drug store) does wonders. PopClickSkip be gone! Spend no more than this on your cleaning kit because you probably only spent a dollar on the record to begin with. Oh, next time you illegally download a song and are disappointed that the encoding rate and quality sucks just remember that you can take your prospective new record purchase out of its sleeve and see just about all the bad sound quality that record has to offer before you part with your dollar. Anyhow, why do records sounds amazing? Mojo, that’s it, plain and simple mojo. It’s the ghosts in the machine. It’s like the scene in The Wizard Of Oz when the movie turns to Technicolor. Who wants to live in Kansas their whole life?

How much does it cost to buy a record player? A good used 1970’s era turntable should not cost more than $150. Don’t buy a DJ deck, anything made in the 1980’s or anything made of plastic (not for sound quality, it’s just turntables are cool and plastic isn’t). Add $50 for a reasonable cartridge and $50 for a cheap but useable phono stage. Say what? What’s a phono stage? Well, it’s pretty much a given that your amp/stereo/surround sound setup doesn’t have the circuitry required to convert those little grooves into lush bass so you’ll need one of those things to do the job for it. Now we’re at $250 – the new portable device costs $400 so that’s $150 to spend on records. Holy Cow, that’s nearly 150 new albums or over 1500 tracks. Makes a 99-cent track look somewhat quaint, doesn’t it?

Of course, you can spend so much more on both the hardware and the vinyl but why bother. The more you spend the more you diminish the wow factor of having bought this stupendous sounding setup for next to no money. Considering love of music is an emotional response to vibrations in the air, heighten that emotion by gloating at the economic miracle that lies before you.

But what about the digital download format? It too is a wonderful thing but think of it as a summer dalliance. Buy yourself a subscription to Rhapsody – it’s like taking your summer fling out to dinner, ice cream and then a romantic walk along the beach in the hope of a little nirvana. Sure, it’s a running cost but when the summer is over, you’re only out of pocket the price of a few meals and you’re not stuck with a diamond ring that won’t fit on the finger of the next new hot girl that comes your way.

“The Wild, The Innocent and E Street Shuffle” is the greatest of lost albums not because of universal appeal or timeless themes but because of it’s foreshadowing of the perfect sultry storm; the pressure born of its inception, creation and execution makes you know you’re in for a big one. A couple of the tracks, “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)” and “4th July Asbury Park (Sandy)”, are still staples of Springsteen’s modern evangelistic traveling medicine show. It’s not those songs that are the album’s greatest achievement but their placement between songs of angst, confusion and celebration surrounded by arrangements that only the most brazen of kids would attempt. It’s not the Jersey boardwalk itself that creates the storm but the combination of the endless summer, disenfranchised youth and the desire to be somewhere else but not knowing where that place of salvation might be. Nowhere does that frustration surface more than in the arrangements of the seven songs that sit in large chunks of acetate, four and three a side, on this record.

The opening of side one, a discordant brass band resolving in almost harmony as “sparks fly on E-Street” matches perfectly the closing chord of the closing song as tuba and accordion hit a similar lone major chord – “Nebraska’s our next stop”. It’s the classic American road trip that leaves the familiar, heads out through manic congas, resonating tuba, chaotic shouting, Rachmaninoff inspired piano, a key clicking full-stopped Hammond and ends with the loneliness of a barren acoustic guitar and the prospect of hope in the badlands of Nebraska.

Side two returns to familiar territory, 57th Street, and Johnny’s back from his road trip. But the mood has changed, gone is the jubilation from before, replaced by a more somber desperation. Escape rather than exploration is the overtone. Perhaps the record company can offer the salvation or maybe escape is across the river in the Mecca of New York, New York. In either case Wild Billy, Diamond Jackie and Puerto Rican Jane will be back for Born To Run. Different names but the faces remain the same.

In the meantime, forget all you know (or thought you knew) about Springsteen. Put aside the Red, White and Blue, grab a pair of headphones and sit out on your balcony or rooftop on a summer’s night (perhaps the 4th of July), close your eyes and open your mind. Things will never be the same again – on so many levels.