Wednesday, November 11, 1998
Don’t be afraid to admit love
for Matchbox 20, Debbie Gibson
COLUMN: Ultrahip pundits miss out on true talent by shunning
popular music
OK, Doctor. I need help. Ever since I started working at the
Daily Bruin a year ago I’ve been aware of my problem, and finally,
I’m going to get off my chest the source of all my shame. So here
it goes …
I love Matchbox 20!
My editor hates this already, but it needs to be said. I love
them just like I love Smashmouth and just like I love ska. I’m
hooked on all that is pop, cheesy and, by extension, mainstream.
You can quit your smirking. I need help, dammit!
What’s wrong with Third Eye Blind and Sugar Ray? Not a damn
thing. And what the hell is so right about U2 and Dave Matthews?
Alright, alright. Don’t get all hot and bothered. I’ll move on.
I remain the subject of scorn every time I come into the Daily
Bruin office and choose a CD to review. Instinctively I reach for
those horn-filled treasures such as The Aquabats and Cherry Poppin’
Daddies. They’ve got catchy tunes that I can really sing along
to.
I figure that someone’s got to represent the average listener. I
know I’ve been chosen as the beacon of wisdom to embrace those
bands sadly referred to as one-hit wonders. For giving them a
chance, I should be praised not ridiculed.
But instead I couldn’t lift my head for a week after giving
Matchbox 20 a good review. I constantly get e-mails from my old
editor, Mike Prevatt, telling me that Sugar Ray now tours with
Vanilla Ice.
I was rear-ended on my way to see Reel Big Fish. Is someone
trying to tell me something? Figuring the answer is yes, I begin my
mission toward full recovery. I will become the music critic that
the readers admire. One way or another I’ll find the source of my
musical tastes.
My past?
Well, I guess it all start when I was a little baby and opened
my big brown eyes to see Chuck E. Cheese perform "Doo Wah Ditty."
My mom said I immediately smiled and put my chubby little digits
together. Some things never change, but even then I knew it wasn’t
gas.
I cheered when I saw my first record album, New Edition. "Mr.
Telephone Man" and "Cool It Down" meant far more to me than Barbie
dolls or Care Bears ever would.
I soon matured and began wooing fourth grade boys with Debbie
Gibson’s "Lost In Your Eyes." Hey, Gibson was the bomb. When I
heard "Electric Youth" I knew I’d found my anthem for juvenile
independence. I even wanted to look like her. Yes, I know I’m
Mexican.
And yes … I loved New Kids. Stop laughing! Everyone did.
"NKOTB forever" is still carved to my dresser, and my old dairy
pages still read in hot pink ink "Michelle + Joey = True Love." But
that’s not unusual. Every girl loved them. If they try to deny it
they’re lying. But if someone loved that Danny guy they’re the one
who should be on the couch. He looked like a monkey.
But I don’t think my childhood is the problem, Doctor. Every
little girl choreographed steps to Janet Jackson’s "Rhythm Nation"
and dreamt of being a Mouseketeer. Right?
High school?
Oh, well I wasn’t always the devoted KROQ worshipper you see
before you. In fact, I hated the station for the majority of my
high school life. Just call me a virtual musical chameleon. I
listened to different genres depending on who I kicked it with.
Freshmen year remains the worst. In an effort to be cool and
have cool friends, I joined a party crew. You remember them. Do
they still exist? Well, I learned the art (if you can call it that)
of dancing to deep house. I learned to dance the way the boys did.
Never mind. All you need to know is that I loved the classics of
Power 106 including those deep house songs such as "Yolanda" and
"Fire Alarm."
I listened to the Baka Boys every morning. Remember the Roll
Call? Here was mine. "With a chick-chick-boom it’s Michelle upon
the mic. And I’m down with Power cause you know they rock it
right." Oh yeah. "And my love goes out to my home-boy Caesar cause
just like Power you know he’s got the flava."
Damn I’m good. But Caesar dumped me a week after I made it up,
so I never called in.
The remainder of my years I gravitated toward 92.3 The Beat, a
station I am still partial to whenever KROQ isn’t doing it for
me.
But going into UCLA I found the Daily Bruin, and I could love
anything I wanted. It’s still not cool though. I go to ska shows,
and I am back in high school. Boys who are still 16 hit on me, and
I get hurt when a mosh pit suddenly forms around me.
So I started my own personal system of therapy. Everyday I
struggle I try to listen to what is considered true music. For
instance, I am getting into Depeche Mode. Baby steps. Whenever, I
reach for No Doubt I tell myself "Don’t do it" and pop in Depeche
Mode instead. I plan on even going to the concert in December. I
love "Personal Jesus" and "Enjoy the Silence." Baby steps,
though.
My roommate is even trying to help. She’s made me listen to Tori
Amos and Elliot Smith. Personally I think all of Amos’ music sounds
the same and Smith thinks he’s in the Beatles. But I’m trying. It’s
just a little much at once.
She also force feeds me Dave Matthews. She was very proud of me
when I started listening to the song "Crush" all on my own. She
wasn’t proud, however, when I turned the CD off immediately
afterward.
Maybe my colleagues will respect me if I listen to their music.
Maybe Mike Prevatt would appreciate it if all I listened to was
Brit-pop and lived life through U2 and the Verve.
Maybe current A&E editor Trinh would accept me if I listened
to all that DJ mixing, trip-hop crap like Fat Boy Slim and Deejay
Punk-Roc.
Maybe my friend Ken would think I was cool if I brought home rap
CDs or Puff "Royal Knock-off" Daddy.
Will the world feel right if I didn’t listen to Everclear? I
don’t think so. Will people start reading my concert reviews if
they weren’t about Save Ferris? Probably not.
The truth is, I still don’t know who I am, so how should I know
what kind of music represents my inner genius? When I look in the
mirror in the morning I say, "Damn. It must be wonderful to be you
despite the fact that you listen to The Wallflowers."
I don’t listen to the Backstreet Boys, N’Sync or Celine Dion.
Doesn’t that count for something?
In my world the only gods are Jakob Dylan and Billie Joe
Armstrong. Sometimes my hormones control my musical desires.
I block out the negativity in the office and focus on what is
important, my personal happiness. To change my tastes because of
peer pressure would be hypocritical and against everything I stand
for as an individual.
Screw it. I’ll start listening to country.
When not in therapy, Zubiate, an undeclared second-year student,
can be reached at zubiate@ucla.edu
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