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I don't
think I've ever gotten into as heated an argument over the
merits of a book as I have defending the quality of an album,
and if John Sellers (a writer for both GQ and Spin) had started
his indie rock memoir Perfect From Now On: How Indie Rock
Saved My Life with the line "I hate Kurt Vonnegut," I
would have been soured and probably even angry, but I'd have
kept reading to find out why, assured that it must be some
sort of joke. But he decided to start with "I hate Bob Dylan,"
and the book was summarily thrown across the room and left
there for a couple hours while I occasionally glared at it.
When
I finally picked up the book again, I discovered that Sellers's
hatred is admittedly irrational and is simply a product of
his father playing it day in and day out for years. "It's
absurd. It makes me look bad. I mean, who doesn't like Bob
Dylan? Only a fool would resist the notion that Bob Dylan
might be a genius…" OK Sellers, you've earned yourself
a reprieve, I thought. But God help you if you try
to attack any other mainstay of my cherished music library.
Thankfully,
Sellers spends the next 200 pages of his music-lover's memoir
being alternatively charmingly self-effacing and endearingly
excited about his music. He charts his musical life from initial
forays into radio-listening and discovering early MTV, all
the way to following his favorite band around the country
on their final tour, all the while completely nerding out
over his chosen obsessions. The tale is often quite funny,
and for anyone who has similar musical obsessions, startlingly
similar and insightful.
Sellers
starts his young life of musical appreciation the same way
most of us do: to appear cool at school. He writes on the
fear that one day, he'll walk into class and profess his love
for a band that doesn't have the cool kid stamp of approval,
opening himself up to the merciless wrath of his peers (who
were listening to such classics as Corey Hart, so what do
they know?). Growing up in Grand Rapids, he says, conditions
one not to seek anything else out. One is unaware that
there is a larger world out there. Everyone listens to Journey,
and Foghat plays bi-monthly at the local dive venue. This
suburban conformity, and the semi-competitive nature of the
battle for cool would ultimately lead to his treasuring the
lesser known, askew side of the musical universe. But that's
not to say he completely sheds his musical heritage. Sellers
fully admits that many of his teenage-year favorites are still
important to him. He writes:
And
just because I love indie music doesn't mean that it's
all I listen to or that it's the only genre that matters.
There is value in the Toto song "Hold the Line." I own
every original studio album by Led Zeppelin, not to mention
Coda. I will always possess the gene that makes some guys
turn their vehicle into Neil Peart's ninety-piece drum
kit whenever Rush's "Tom Sawyer" comes on.
But one
day, Sellers was saved from Journey. On a road trip with a
friend's family, he was introduced to his first musical obsession;
a scene to which many music fans can relate: that moment where
your friend has scored a tape from their cooler older sibling
and wisely passes it to you. Sellers's first musical obsession
was the then relative-unknown U2. At the time, they were being
played on MTV (which was still not that big a deal in 1985),
and while not "indie," they were still hidden enough to become
his personal little secret—a musical treasure of his
very own. The revelation started a pattern of obsession.
When
Dave offered me the headphones, it was almost like that
scene in Garden State when Natalie Portman's character,
a motor-mouth fan of the Shins, puts hers over Zach Braff's
ears and says, "Listen to this: It will change your life."
Only this wasn't the most painful moment in the history
of independent cinema…I didn't know it then, of course,
but this was the point of infection.
Over
the next 170-some pages, that infection grows. More bands
are discovered, pilgrimages are taken, and Morrissey jokes
are made. Initially flipping through the book, Perfect
from Now On seemed irksome at first. The Dylan thing didn't
help, of course. And there are pages and pages of foot notes
(including an entire chapter about Joy Division contained
within a footnote), which generally spells "massive douchebaggery"
and "masturbatory self-importance." Thankfully this is not
the case. The footnotes read more like youthful exuberance—a
case of being too eager to wait until it's entirely relevant.
And instead of being self-important, the writing is friendly
and familiar, and the humor is self-aware and self-mocking.
Instead of the imagined hipster slog, Perfect from Now
On reads like a fun evening at the bar talking to an old
D&D buddy while the jukebox plays Pavement and Guided by Voices
songs: comfortable and awesome with a hint of geek (for flavor).
Sellers
displays this music geek element in Perfect's three appendices,
which include dozens and dozens of lists about best band names,
most disappointing albums, top seven power trios, and "top
five musical things that I hope happen now that the original
lineups of the Pixies and Dinosaur Jr. have reunited" (#1:
Ian Curtis is resurrected). Appendix B gets even geekier with
a six-page math formula attempting to quantify musical tastes
numerically. The fact that Yo La Tengo only scores an 82 to
Guided By Voices' 1,369 leads me to believe the formula still
needs some work. GBV is not sixteen times better than Yo La
Tengo even though they've put out sixteen times as many albums.
At 200
pages, Perfect from Now On is a quick, entertaining
read that humorously and accurately lays out the excitement
of one man's love of music. His wit, charm, and self-aware
eye go a long way to rescuing a book that could have easily
turned into a hipster pissing contest. Perfect does
an excellent job illustrating how ridiculous and uncool people
can be when following their obsessions. John Sellers has written
a fantastic love-letter to the music that "saved his life,"
and anyone who has ever combed eBay looking for rare posters
and singles or flown across the country for a concert should
enjoy hearing someone else's indie rock war stories.
(July
2008)
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