Published in the May 2013 issue, on sale any day now

Part of the Songs Every Man Should Listen To, hosted by the beautiful Nina Agdal.

New music and I broke up March 2, 1998. I just wasn't feeling it anymore and thought it best we went our separate ways. And it could be the feeling was mutual, because that's the very day I started to confront my musical mortality, to face the death of my own personal cool. Who would I become if I wasn't aware of Youth Lagoon or Vampire Weekend? Or was that Youth Weekend at Vampire Lagoon? I, like any healthy teenager, am partial to music that makes me want to vandalize your home, but for some damn reason I find the stuff that's popular right now makes me lactate. And the reality is I couldn't name any of the bands at the Grammys, and I know only a very small handful of bands named in these very pages. There was a time when it was important to know who was who; it was like having a cool badge. The more obscure your musical references, the more you'd have people believe in your shamanic powers. The spirit world must be happy with us — here's the latest Sigur Rós record; it's not out for another two weeks.

What's going on? Music today is an overmarketed, autotuned, asexual bunch of skinny jeans raised on Barney and American Idol. That particular combo doesn't spell danger, defiance, demonic possession, and deviant sex, the essential ingredients of a good rock song. It seems that for the first time in history, parents and their kids are enjoying the same music at the same time. Whatever happened to the good ol' days when teenagers would commit suicide and their parents would blame the band? Whatever happened to the utter disgust your parents would have for the shit blasting through your bedroom door when you were a teenager? Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?

Let's take a band I was told is important this year: the Lumineers. What would interest me in a chanting jug-band jamboree trio? Their suspenders and unusual hats? How am I supposed to feel when I listen to that music? Why the hell would I wander into the forest of new music when I know I might run into that helpless, whining critter? I might have to feed it. But I'd rather feed it to Die Antwoord and see the blood rolling down its chin. Good God, now that's a newish group that I can get behind. This South African rap/rave trio makes prison rape look like something not to be missed. Its presentation is just terrifying — dangerous and riveting and alive — just what music should feel like. It's as if the group's from another planet, an alien prison colony maybe. Watch the videos "Fatty Boom Boom" or "I Fink U Freeky" and you'll be asking for your mommy, especially if Bon Iver is your normal cup of tea.

Now, just because I don't have ears for new music doesn't mean that I don't love the Spotify. I have every album ever made (except for the Beatles' and AC/DC's, which aren't available), every new release, every new single anywhere I go. I swear I'll never buy another song from iTunes ever again. It's the perfect way for me to listen to some new stuff and forget it immediately. One of my new favorites is Gary Clark Jr., who is a fantastic singer/guitar player from Texas. Full of soul and blues, he sounds just like... wait a minute, he sounds a lot like... Stevie Ray mixed with Albert Collins maybe.

Why don't I just punch up the originals? I'll set my radio to Gary Clark Jr., and usually it's pretty good until I hit a band like Grizzly Bear, and then I want to kill Grizzly Bear. It's all so derivative of older music. I can usually name the original band the new band is copying and the song that's being ripped off. Why wouldn't I just listen to the original? I'm just amazed at how abundant older music is on the Spotify. Can you believe the entire Frank Zappa catalog is there? I can't find two minutes away from that material to discover new stuff... except for Die Antwoord. Man, I'm strangely attracted to the tiny blond woman in the group — her murderface, her black contacts covering the whites of her eyes, her little mouse voice singing "Yo fuck the system. My system pumps off its fuckin face," her maniac partner, with some of the worst tattoos imaginable, flailing behind like a sex offender on crack.

I have to get away from Die Antwoord. The band scares me, in a very alluring way. As music it's crap, actually, but it certainly is dangerous. Wasn't good rock 'n' roll always scary and dangerous? Does everything become antiseptic over time? Will Marilyn Manson soon become his own late-night infomercial? I am so confused. I think I may be going through the stages of grief. (Is horny one of the stages?)

Need a shot of "Welcome to the Jungle." There, that's better. You know, the depressing thing is that even when I travel to Los Angeles on business, I stay at a hotel where aging rock stars go to be comfortable, and I happen to love it, okay? On any given weekend, I'll run into an old favorite at the bar or pool. Hey, look, there's Neal

Schon from Journey having some toast. Hey, isn't that Joe Perry from Aerosmith heading to the spa in his robe? Excuse me, Mr. Walsh, you dropped your pillbox. I may be in a vegetative musical state, but at least I'm warm and comfortable.

So please, keep your pseudo-post-punk intellectual folk band with your unusual eyewear, beards, hats, and that, that, that Gotye. You can Mumford your Sons for all I care, my friend. And why did you name your band Fun.? Your music isn't fun; it makes me want to beat you up. They say the last stage of grief is acceptance, and I can accept this fact: I've been a man in search of music, and the music that I love is mostly gone, long since neutered and tamed. All the same, I'll slip on my slippers, pour a fine single-malt Scotch, and relax with "Evil Boy (Fuck You in the Face Mix)," by Die Antwoord. And I'll rejoice, secure in the knowledge that music is music, danger is danger, and those two things will always find a way to go together, like a nice cold beer and an afternoon with your mom.

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