As I’ve slipped into the heart of middle age, I’ve noticed myself becoming irritatingly susceptible to bouts of nostalgia. The latest episode occurred when, rummaging through some boxes in the basement, I came across the tattered remnants of my once-great record collection.
In the romanticized version of my life, the first record I ever purchased was one that reflected admirably on the sensibilities of a self-styled twelve-year-old tastemaker — something, say, in the vein of the Ramones or the Velvet Underground. Deep down, of course, I’m pretty sure what I bought was inexcusably synth-y, saccharine, bouncy, and very popular.
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