March 19, 2005
Walking long distances in clogs is not a smart idea. Perhaps not as dumb as walking for a long time in high heels, but nonetheless, still not the brightest idea. The feet, in an effort to keep the damn shoes on, will rub, making blisters in all the wrong places. Entering into this little store, away from the “hustle” and “bustle” of Williamsburg, my feet had started to ache. Despite the blisters my Birkenstocks were giving me, I was on a mission. I had discovered a few weeks before “popular music” and wished to acquire some of this at the record store my sister had been raving about. The store, with its ever elusive name, was set up in such a way that everything to the right when entering through the glass front doors was interesting and held untold treasures (CDs) from equally interesting lands (bands). The left side of the store may as well not have existed.
Feet aching, feeling slightly jittery, I headed towards the “I” section of the CDs. Interpol, Interpol, Interpol. Ah, Interpol. Now…Antics. No, not that one, Antics. Here we are, Antics. Okay, now I’m looking for Zutons, Z. Who killed…the Zutons. Here it is. Lets see, I have this much money…okay, cool.
I wandered around Planet 9 (or is it Plan 9?), brushing through the other CDs and DVDs, suddenly bored and feeling the effects of poor shoe selection more than ever. The lack of meds made my attention span even shorter than normal. I flipped through posters, staring quickly at each known and unknown band name, intrigued and uncaring. My ears, having previously been filtering out the PA system, suddenly caught on to something very peculiar. A “whoa” or “la” bounced out of the speakers, diverting my attention and slowing my blistered feet. This, unknown and jaggedly brilliant, was something I wanted to know about. It’s popular, right? Definitely isn’t the Beatles or anything I know. So, find out who. I asked my sister Sophie if she knew who this was, but she just shrugged.
Oh god. I don’t want to ask the sales clerk. Don’t make me ask the sales clerk. Oh, but that was interesting, that was new. I want to hear that again. Fine, I’ll ask the sales clerk…
“Um, excuse me, who is this…” I’m nervous, timidly pointing above my head, not entirely sure I’m allowed to ask.
“Kaiser Chiefs. I think it was released last week.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Kaiser Chiefs, Kaiser Chiefs, Kaiser Chiefs. K, where’s K? Ah, K. Kaiser…Chiefs. Here! Kaiser Chiefs, Employment. Oh shit…not enough money. Damnit. Well, I’ll put the Zutons back, I can get that later.
January 10, 2006 (about a year later)
I’ve jumped and screamed through two Kaiser Chiefs concerts, euphoria blurring the memories of each experience. July 22nd and October 3rd, each with their own set lists and flitting memories of a smile, a hat, proximity to the stage and an odd feeling of connectedness. I have a small collection of photos of the band and its lead singer Ricky Wilson. It will grow considerably over the next year and a half and the amount of giggling and flushed cheeks with each right click save will increase as well. I’ve joined online communities, read hundreds of articles, bought an import magazine (NME Yearbook, where more giggling and blushing occurred along with confessions of sanity which weren’t true), downloaded B-sides and demos (both legal and illegal, excuses made for the illegal ones that will fuel debates of conscious and the spending of more money on thing but well loved tee-shirts), and discovered that popular music isn’t just what’s MTV and VH1. Now, a year and a million listens later, I’m being vindicated. Kaiser Chiefs have been nominated for five Brit Awards, which is the equivalent of being nominated for five Grammy’s. (They will win three; Best British Group, Best Rock Act, and Best Live Show.) I feel elated, a selfish pride for a group of men I’ve never met. I think of their nominations as my nominations, proof that all my yelling, screaming, laughing, and boasting gave them these nominations. A month later, when they win, I will feel the same rush of emotion, not because I did anything, but simply because it happened. My strange and serendipitous discovery, now an obsession of sorts, has been vindicated, so in turn I have been vindicated. Hurrah for “Time Honoured Tradition.”
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