Indie boys through the years and why I hate them

I was listening to Sufjan Stevens's Seven Swans a moment ago, when his twee little voice just started to piss me off. Just sing, man! Possibly, the Jesus-heavy content of his songs was also to blame for my insta-hatred. I'm getting tired of soft-voiced dudes and their sweet little songs--do you hear me, Sam Beam?! We're supposed to swoon for the humorless "poetic" imagery in these goons' songs, when in fact they're just tapping into the same hipster/yuppie collective unconscious that makes everyone name their kid Emma, Jack, Jacob, or Madeline. Ride the zeitgeist, fellas!

Anyway, my mood has improved with a heaping helping of Odetta. Hot damn, I love that woman. Give me a woman with a big voice and awesome songwriting/interpreting skills any damn day of the week.

Dork alert: Think of these indie white boyz as Wordsworth--popular and occasionally interesting, but ultimately irritating and unfulfilling. Eventually, you're tempted to smack him about the chops a bit just to make his pain real.

You're much better off finding yourself some Marvell or, to fast-forward to the 20th century, some Philip Larkin. Not only was Larkin a librarian (shout out to the Manfriend!), but he was a loner who wrote scathingly brilliant, sad, and funny poems. His earlier poems kind of rub me the wrong way, but once he gets going, watch out. I'll post my two favorite Larkin poems soon: "The Whitsun Weddings" and "Aubade." Melancholy and reflective, these have both affected me greatly over the past few weeks.