Yesterday I drove to Detroit, aka “rock city,” to attend a much-anticipated concert by the group Bad Suns. The setting was the basement of the city’s legendary St. Andrews Hall, which hosts a steady stream of emerging artists.
In 1988, the music scene was still, for me, a melting pot of innovation, when “cool” artists paid as much attention to their look as they did to the unique sound they carried into studios. The rise of grunge rock in the early 1990’s, however, would soon find me mourning the loss of one of the most explosive periods of creativity in musical history, replaced by a guitar-heavy alternative rock sound I was never impressed with.
I’m a purist when it comes to music. I enjoy the memories certain songs evoke, the circumstantial combinations of hearing songs at specific moments, and the events and emotions happening at the time.