Unsatisfied Desire to Hear Polka of Doom

Draft of 2006.07.25 ☛ 2015.04.05

May include: performing arts&c.

or, I’m not pomo. I’m just drawn out that way.

So it’s a warm summer night. We’ve had a very salty, but not too bad dinner out on the west side at the new(ish) Carlyle restaurant, and we’re driving back into Ann Arbor along Jackson.

At each stoplight, another late-stage Boomer is driving another well-used minivan, windows down, radio blaring. Boomer #1: “Born to Run”. Boomer #2: Johnny Cash.

This provokes the sort of conversation we normally reserve for Muzak: “Well, crap. Now that’ll be stuck in my head for days.”

We muse a bit, about the summer night, the wild-oats instincts (get it? Wild Oats? like, you know, the store?) of the late-stage Boomer, and I realize that the music I would most likely be blaring from my minivan radio with the windows open would be… well, difficult Thirteener Shoegazer/proto-Goth/post-techno music. Sisters. Medicine (and ohmigod! I love YouTube: my favoritest causative deafness agent of all “Aruca”. God, I wore the bits off that CD….). Lords of Acid. Lush. God Lives Underwater. Skinny Puppy. Einstürzende Neubaten.

You know. Good music. Music you can not only feel in your bones, but which hurts those bones (especially the little hammer and anvil-shaped ones I broke into dust many years back). Not like that pabulum kids listen to today, with musical instruments and words and crap. In my day, you hit shit and that was music. You didn’t talk, you moaned and screamed. Kids.

But (as has been the case since this music’s release), nobody in my family could stand to be within earshot of the car if I played My Medicine at the correct and proper volume. Which is, of course, 13….

At any rate, as these conversations go, we meander. What I want to hear, tonight? Goth Polka.

Barbara provides a sample. [Minor key] Oompthud-PA! Oomppaaaaahhh. Enter accordions of doom. Begin the slow two-step to the grave. Black posies and polka-dots. A misery of harmony and bleak frivolity.

But that’s all we’ll get, I’m afraid. The hint of a possibility. I remain unfulfilled. My radio must blare the nostalgic speaker-damaging music of my youth.

I have merely to await the wonder of the Social Internet to flesh in the details, and tell me where I could find this wonder.