My life as a museum piece

The first time I felt old was when I failed utterly to get the appeal of emo. Not the classic emo of Fugazi and Minor Threat, but the modern version that struck me as a whinier form of goth. Sure, there was some good music there, but the scene itself passed over my head, and I knew I wasn’t the young audience that it was marketed to anymore.

I felt old again when the eighties revival swung around, but in a qualified way. It was the half-remembered soundtrack of my childhood, almost new to me at times. I didn’t have a connection to it in a way that made it mine, rather it was still my parents generation who were living through it again.

Now we have the inevitable nineties revival, and I finally feel truly old. Watching documentries about the music scene and seeing a new generation citing it as an influence in the same way mine claimed T Rex and The Jam, I know that I’ve gone past the point of no return. I am old, and the grey hairs that I keep finding aren’t going to go away.

It’s odd. One minute I was in the heart of everything, knowing that if we did meet up in the year 2000 it was still impossibly far away, and now I’m looking back and thinking about how long ago it was. It isn’t that it was better then, not at all. I’m a much happier person now then I ever was in my youth. It’s just weird. I’ve finally noticed time catching up to me.


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