Stephen Mejias

Music editor, Robert Baird, comes over and asks: "How’s it going, chief?"
The "chief" part I take as a compliment. This is a magazine publishing company we’re working for, after all.
"Not bad," I say, while handing him the new Silver Jews album I purchased last night: "Have you heard this yet? It’s pretty good."
"Oh yeah," he responds, "It’s great. Did you buy this?"

I’ve grown accustomed to Robert asking me if I actually paid money for albums, as if there’s any other way for me to get them.
Nearly embarrassed, but not quite (realizing there’s no reason for me to be embarrassed), I admit: "Yes. I’ve been spending a lot of money on music lately."
"I was about to say…" he agrees. "You’ve been shelling out lots of dough."

Robert shakes his head at me, wags a finger at me, chides me for spending money on albums that we could potentially wrestle from labels free-of-charge due to our positions here at the magazine.

But, I can’t help it, dude. When I hear about an album I want, the first thing I do is wonder if it’s available in stores. I don’t think about sending an e-mail to the band’s label guy and asking if I can get hooked up. First of all, I would just feel kinda crummy about it. I mean, someone deserves to get paid for this thing. It’s more than pretty good. Robert was right; it’s great. I don’t really know where my money’s going, but I’m glad I got this album in return for it. I’m loving it, and I’ve already forgotten how much I spent for it. (It was $16.99, dammit.)

Second, if I were to ask a label to send me a record, I would inevitably feel obliged to write something about it, and I really don’t want to feel obliged to do anything because as soon as I realize obligation, I become super-lazy and rebellious — and depressed(!) even — and, come on, who wants to be depressed? I’m all for making something pretty and creating a piece of art here, and while depression can be a good source of artistic inspiration, obligation — at least of the moral sort — doesn’t work for me. Obligation just pisses me off. I want to be moved in that same kind of way that her voice, her skin, her eyes move me. I want to write because there’s nothing else for me to do, but write. I want to have to — need to — write. I don’t want to write out of debt. That’s no fun.

Finally, when I know there’s an album out there that I want, I don’t want to wait for someone else to send it to me. Waiting for something I want — waiting for something I need — is hard. There are plenty of things worth waiting for — a sunny day, love, a walk through Bryant Park with the most beautiful woman in the world for the spectacular grand opening of "The Pond" — but, when I can just go out and buy a CD, I’ll do it. Even if it is $16.99, dammit.

But let me make one thing clear: I have nothing against receiving gifts. If some record label guy out there wants to send me a certain CD because he thinks I’ll like it and hopes that I’ll write about it, but understands that I might not, well, I’m all for that. No prob.

And, so: What’s so great about this Silver Jews album?

Well, there're these lines in "Sleeping is the Only Love" (and ain’t that the truth sometimes?) that go:

I knew this guy his name was Mark with a C.
His sister was like the heat coming off the back of an old TV

And, dang, that just does it for me.

And, as if that wasn’t enough, god, then there’s the way the album starts with "Punks in the Beerlight," and how the verse just builds so perfectly to the chorus — intensity and volume rising and twisting slowly — and then, the chorus — the chorus(!) — the chorus just drops into this spine-tingling, knee-buckling, head-banging break of hot girl vocals going:

If it gets really really bad
If it ever gets really really bad…

And, then — before you can even deal with the beauty — that hot girl-action is suddenly complimented by more ugly man vocals, chiming in:

Let’s not kid ourselves.
It gets really really bad

As if there’s no use in pretending that there ever really is an "if." Things do get really, really bad. They do and they will, and when they do, if nothing else — if no one else — I want you to know that I love you. I do, and will. And, yeah, I paid for this album.

I paid for it because I wanted it, and more: because I wanted to share it with someone.