47 Miles of Barbed Wire: Back to Regulate Like Warren G.

Friends, I have to tell you something important–this was almost my last column. I was going to resign, kind of, in a weaselish manner, or something like that. Just wasn’t feeling it anymore, having some personal and professional issues, all that stuff.

Most of all, though, I was thinking that music criticism didn’t really matter in this day and age. I mean, in a world where Susan Boyle sells more records than [insert cognoscenti-favored but poor-selling musical act here]…. But then some people started to mess with me and my critic posse. No one messes with my posse, even the ones that piss me off.

It’s so on now it might as well be called “Beyoncé Songs at the Homecoming Dance.”

So as you may or may not know, I spend some time evaluating music as part of a few different websites. My own, Cave 17, is kind of a general interest thing about a lot of subjects; I also check in at The Singles Jukebox, an awesome place where a bunch of us blind-judge current songs based on nothing more than listening to them and sometimes watching the videos. (All the time for me; videos rule.) And then there’s this column here, which I have also been neglecting because I’ve been out of town for a lot of days in the last six weeks for my actual real-life job, and have been exhausted the rest of the time, and blah blah blah no one cares why.

But I had been starting to think that maybe no one really cared about music writing anymore. I mean, I’ve poured my heart and soul into some web postings in various places, and nary a peep from anyone. All my over-the-top cheerleading for certain records or acts did not help them become successful; many of the albums I’ve decried have become trillion-sellers virtually overnight. Honestly, I would lay in bed saying, “I must really have bad taste in music.” I mean, come on–that’s ridiculous, as I actually happen to have THE BEST taste in music.

Except for my readers, of course. You guys and gals really ARE the awesomest. Yes, even the ones that said just a few weeks ago that THE FOO FIGHTERS were the greatest rock band in American history. *shivers uncontrollably*

So there I was, drifting along on the ocean of self-doubt, when a controversy reared its ugly head. It flared up on The Singles Jukebox–no, I won’t say which entry, but it’s pretty easy to figure out–and its flames were fanned by one pretty well-known blogger who disagreed with the takes of a few of us. Not me, necessarily, but a few people who I think the world of, even when their opinions piss me off. (ESPECIALLY because their opinions occasionally piss me off.) A couple of them have even written for Cave 17. Dude, that’s my posse you’re talking about.

This Internet beef has now gone on to inhabit dozens of blogs and message boards and Tumblr accounts and comments sections and tweets, which means of course absolutely nothing, because most people don’t care and will never hear about it or forget it tomorrow or whatever. But I have found myself in a weird mood because of all of this:

Exhilarated. Giddy, almost. Because what these arguments are proving to me is that people still care passionately about music. And sure, not all of us are going to like the same things…but deep down, hackles can still be raised by this. HACKLES, LIZ LEMON! And where there are hackles, there is still a lot of undiscovered country to, well, discover.

So yeah, I guess you could say I’m back. Not that I’ve gone anywhere, mind you–I’m talking about my fighting spirit being back, the willingness to engage others in arguments that matter. And all because of some stupid indie song on some little ol’ website somewhere. Miraculous!

So yeah, now I’m back. Lots to talk about, lots to do, lots of coffee to be dumped into the IV drip of my mind. I was going to do a “Forgotten Albums of the 2000s” but now it’s gonna be a top 100 list. I was going to skip a “Top Albums of 2009″ but now it too is gonna be a top 100 list. (If I get that far.)

Got a mandate to regulate, y’all. Stay tuned. (And stay tuned.)