Uncrush my hands
Yeah, like everything else he’s done in the last ten years, this is as slick, cheesy, and overproduced as a car commercial soundtrack. It will probably be a car commercial soundtrack sometime soon, if it hasn’t been already.
All the same, it’s a great fucking rock anthem, dramatic and inspiring. I heard it by chance on the radio a couple days ago, downloaded it from a P2P network, and have been listening to it compulsively ever since. Its effect on me is difficult to explain; it seems to represent a kind of nostalgia, not only for some particular glam-rock messiahs, but for a whole time of fuzzy-ego’d youth when it seemed possible for the right rock n’ roll band to save us from ourselves. As I’ve gotten older, of course I’ve learned that no single musician holds the keys to salvation in his guitar. That’s just experience, and I’m a stronger person for it, but at the same time it seems to distance me from things. I just can’t get swallowed utterly in the sound the way I used to, and part of me will always miss that.
I guess that’s always the way with nostalgia; it’s not the times we miss, but rather who we were in those times. And this cheesy Moby song captures that whole feeling for me. I’d like to sit out the old McDowell Hall steps after midnight and crank this a few times out of a fucked-up old boombox, singing along with my friends. Like it says on the back of my copy of Ziggy Stardust: TO BE PLAYED AT MAXIMUM VOLUME.
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