I don’t know what’s happened to my taste in music.
This morning I packed three CDs for work-listening, Nick Drake, Norah Jones and Lemon Jelly. Only the latter could be seen as in any sense “groovy”, and none provide much evidence of my having my finger on the pulse.
Contrast my late teens and early twenties, when everything about my musical landscape could be triangulated from the first Stone Roses album, early Pixies and Lou Reed’s fabulous New York album. (Note that I’m taking this as a high-water mark: go further back and you will find a baroque mixture of naff and the unpleasantly unlistenable.)
Now, even my taste in garage would receive approval from polo-necked Guardianistas.
Disturbingly, this may be part of a larger pattern. The other day I expressed interest in a pair of courduroy jeans. My other half has started taking the mickey out of my taste in TV programmes, noting that all I watch are “Long Ago” documentaries.
Maybe it’s too late. My current number one annoyance is that all of my Frank Sinatra CDs have been nicked…by my mum.
What has happened to my taste in music?