In a little less than a month, I’ll be turning 40 years-old. As this has been a year of relative silence from me, (as my day-to-day responsibilities have grown and the endurance with which I can pursue my passions, namely Letters From A Tapehead, have become nil), I’ve been faced with an inbox brimming with evidence that I may have reached some level of irrelevance, that my experience, understanding, and ideas regarding music may be outdated. It seems the natural conclusion when you’re well past the point of no return, unable to bargain with your record collection or penchant for late nights at any number of venues for a few more years of connection. I’ve been pondering what it means to be faced with the likelihood of meaninglessness in music's modern age; to be someone for whom music is no longer meant to target or embrace; to be a near-obsessive record fanatic sometimes confused by the so-called cream of pop's current crop. And, now, I get to be one of those guys: the aged ...
