In thinking through the 25 Albums… project, as usual, my brain seems to separate into factions. There are numerous tribes, mostly too skulkful to describe accurately at this time, some perhaps with their faces in their breasts, monopods bouncing about, sort of thing.

When approaching the Facebook/list topic, one group of smokers dressed mainly in black sulks about the silly, superficial idea. It loathes that personally important music, like, actual RECORDS, should be considered reducible to under-explained lists of tracks that stand like water striders, pressing delicately into the surface but never submerging… loathes the very idea of doing this on Facebook, because it loathes Facebook. Facebook, where convenient social intercourse and potentially fun geekery is not only ruined by a holiday camp enforced funtime mentality but in fact becomes sinister through being applied to EVERYSINGLEPARTOFYOURLIFE. “Hey, let’s make a daily ritual out of that brilliant idea we talked about for three minutes once and tell everyone in the whole world even if they don’t care and…” “Piss off, and take your digital zombie farm likes with you.”

That little crowd of grumblers has difficulties also in overcoming the Nick Hornby qualms. The qualms, the qualms… You see, (explains a member of the crowd who looks a bit like me in a John Cusack mask, moving forward to address the camera, punctuating with a cigarette,) I quite liked High Fidelity, which is of course about a bloke making sense of his life through music… but… About a Boy, also about music and self-obsessed bloke, remains one of the few books I have actually thrown across an actual room in irritation. (Aside to a different camera) The first Twilight novel simply slipped from my fingers as I slumped, halfway through that interminable first page. 31 Songs committed the grave offences of picking all the wrong Teenage Fanclub tunes and just being BORING, like, accountancy spreadsheet rock? Files? Lists? Tchoh. [Cigarettes flicked gutterwards with middle finger disdain swirl off in a river of rain].

YET… Another, happier crowd bounces into view, blasting the Club Tropicana eclectimix, dressed like LMFAO, 18-30 reps cross-pollinated with fanzine writers, high on smart drugs and phones, comfortable with their filing, downloading everything now because they can, we can. The sun follows them. WhatEVS, sneerers! they hoot, compiling an instant Top 5 Miserable Sods List, a list that has Morrissey on it, thus further irritating the grumblers because he’s not actually miserable and YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, and the happy crowd DOESN’T CARE, because it is all harmless FUN and it doesn’t actually matter, Mr Frowny, because it’s all just word frolics… and look, what’s wrong with the Book of Face? Because all we have is sharing our souls and talking shit in the face of the abyss, which is actually our own face, but look over here something else and DRINKS TOO?

Yeah, go on then. I need to find some sort of way to just write about things without imagined mobs of idiots arguing me into or out of it.

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