A melody haunts my reverie

I used to have that lonesome ability to be ensnared by melodies that played endlessly in my head. But I haven't felt found myself in that state of addiction since, say, the emergence of Neutral Milk Hotel's last opus. Noting how my latest listening excursions weren't "sticky" (to borrow that Web 2.0 term), I wondered what changed. I'd lost the ability to become haunted: was it me or the music?

I decided it was me. I chalked the change to having a much fuller life with Mrs. B, with school, then a fledgling career, then kids, so I didn't simply have the time to drown myself in any single aural ocean.

But then along came a record that has upset my internal jukebox apple cart. I think it's the seduction of the hopelessly obscure- I just can't get enough of those private sonic thrills. Who else would be interested in a collection of low-fi ditties from '90s Buckeyes?

Well, I would or Bob's your uncle. It has all the right personal connections for me to kindle that delusion that I'm Almost Famous. The album contains cuts from a guy from Gaunt I met at a French Quarter party in the mid-'90s and from the Scat Records owner who lived down the street from me in high school. It even has the cache of possessing a song from the Yo La Tengo bassist who's anonymous on the track listing. But the two songs that really slay me are from a guy who shamelessly steals the Galaxie 500 sound (and gets away with it) and a song from a Guided by Voices member.

So excuse me while I go hit "play."