The Barryfest Chronicles

Even though I like to think of myself as a wise music connoisseur with eclectic taste, I have been pretty closed minded about “new music” for the better part of my adult life.  With the exception of Wilco, Lil’ Wayne, and Prince, I only regularly listened to music that was made before I was born.  I wouldn’t call it a rule, it was just an ethos that was pretty effective at keeping my CD collection and iPod full of rocking tuneskis for all these years.

It stands to figure that the music that was created for the 50,000 years before I existed deserves more attention than what has been put on wax since the year of our lord 1984.  I mean, even a great band like Talking Heads hit their creative peak by 1983 with Speaking in Tongues, so I figured the arbitrary, unofficial policy that governed my music consumption was firm but fair.

Sure, I was a big Sublime fan in middle school, went through a solid rap phase in high school and painstakingly assembled playlists filled with one hit wonders from the 80s and 90s during college; but even during these flights of fancy, when I was looking for a new fix, I thought I would be better served by digging into T.Rex’s canon than by picking up the new Snow Patrol album.

Even during my early 20s – a time when more and more “indie” groups were signing to imprints of major labels, touring heavily and showing up on the soundtracks of the smut I watch on TV -  I was able to keep my distance.   Suprisingly, one of the only things that kept me on the straight and narrow was a coworker who’s life seemed to revolve around the oh-yeah-well-my-favorite-band-doesn’t-even-exist-yet pissing contests that I assume pass for “hello” in the annals of the tight-jeaned, wayfarer wearing hipster that patronize publications like Spin and all the albums positively reviewed therin.  Early on, I identified him as the most bizarrly perfect reverse-litmus test for new music I have ever encountered.  I knew if I just avoided anything that he ever mentioned I would probably be alright.

But for whatever reason, I have been opening up at bit in recent months.  In addition to catching incredible local musicians for little or no cover on a weekly basis, I have also made a semi-regular habit of paying real money (or at least making time in my schedule) to check out nationally touring bands that I had heard of but not actually heard.

As little as a year ago, even as I was living in the mecca of indie rock that is the Twin Cities, this type of shit was unheard of.  And it may not seem like much to you, but forking over some skrilla to see an “up-and-coming band” without being intimately familiar with their material is a big step in the life of a judgmental musical curmudgeon such as myself.

The returns so far have been great.  In February I caught a North Mississippi All Stars show at Tipitina’s that turned into a virtuoso jam marathon that stretched into the wee hours of the morning.  And at the beginning of the summer I went to a Vampire Weekend show on Tulane’s campus that was surprisingly engaging and gave me a good excuse to catch some outdoor heaters.

But these were child’s play compared to my adventure last night.  As I was sitting at home watching the thrilling White Sox/Twins tiebreaker while listening to The Best Show on WFMU, I received a call inviting me to a concert that would surely test the mettle of my recent musical awakening.

The band was Okkervil River and the venue was Republic.  To understand the gravity of such an event, let me share a two key facts would have made the old me’s skin crawl:

1. Pitchfork Media loves Okkervil River.  This is never a good sign.
2. Republic is a newish club in New Orleans’ swanky Warehouse District that is notorious for serving overpriced domestic bottles and being an unapologetic scenester’s paradise

But – because I am a new man and The Republic is a only a few blocks from my apartment – I shot on over, bought a $12 ticket at the door, bellied up to the bar for $4 High Lifes, and rocked out to Austin, TX’s most popular new band.  And you know what?  It was great.

I am not about to trash the extended Purple Chick deluxe remasters of The Beatles full discography that are filling my hard drive to make room for Matador Records’ entire catalog just yet, but I am finally comfortable admitting that the music made in the last 24 years and counting might not all be garbage.  Just most of it.