My car audio system is equipped to hold six compact discs.  Right now Coldplay’s Viva La Vida and two rock/pop music compilations occupy three of these slots.  These CDs are ripped and ready to go should I need their services to entertain any passengers that travel in my car.  The other three slots are occupied by all three albums by Avril Lavigne, and these CDs never get played if someone else besides me is in the car.  This is because these songs largely appeal to 12-year old girls, and I’m fully aware that if I, a male “grown-up,” am seen blasting Sk8er Boi through the 8-speaker system, I would probably get some weird looks.

Admittedly, I am an Avril Lavigne fan.  I have all of her albums and B-side singles, and I know the lyrics to upwards of 80% of her songs.  But, I’m also conscious to the fact that people despise her.  I like her music, but I’ll be the first to admit that she might not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier.  When her first album, Let Go, hit the charts in 2002, she was a 17-year old tomboy punk trying to make a fashion statement with wifebeaters and neckties.   When her second album, Under My Skin, was released two years later, she re-characterized herself as being dark and Gothic, and she sang about more serious topics such as sex, depression, and suicide.  In 2007 she transformed herself again with her third album, The Best Damn Thing.  She put on a skirt, colored her hair striking blonde, and started dancing like Britney Spears in her videos.  Her music became blatantly pop, and many of her fans felt betrayed by her new sound.  When asked in numerous interviews about it, she said that she wasn’t seventeen anymore, and her new sound is just a reflection of her growing up.  And therein lies the Avril paradox.  She is six years older from when she debuted, but if you’ve ever heard the boneheaded lyrics to Girlfriend, you would think that it was written by a 12-year old on the verge of puberty.  Her entire third album is the epitome of girly bubblegum-pop, and she’s kind of delusional if she thinks her music is more “grown-up.”  Based on her music, Avril is not getting older; in fact, she may be the only person in the world who is actually going backwards in time and getting younger.  I love Avril Lavigne, but she’s kind of a dumbass.

This is not to say that I don’t like The Best Damn Thing.  In fact, I think it’s her best damn album.  There is no doubt that Avril is a talented singer and songwriter, so it interests me why she seems to piss people off as much as she does.  The average American citizen doesn’t seem to like her very much.  Right now I’m sitting at an average Starbucks store on an average Thursday evening and I just asked a random Starbucks employee what she thinks about Avril Lavigne.  I asked, “Do you have any strong feelings, positive or negative, about Avril Lavigne?”  Although she may have been slightly annoyed by the randomness of the question, she replied, “Not really, but she’s kind of a poseur.”  Considering Avril’s intentional metamorphosis from a punk-rock grrrrl to a high school cheerleader, this response seemed warranted. 

I suppose I can understand why people feel this way.  The Best Damn Thing is a far departure from what her older songs sounded like.  Avril’s numerous transformations have unfortunately classified her as “hateable.”  However, this phenomenon is nothing new to music.  At some point in many artists’ career (this is usually their third album), they try new things and explore their creativity, which often leaves their fans confused and befuddled.  This happened to Liz Phair in 1998 when she released her third album, whitechocolatespaceegg.  This album was panned by critics as it was clearly not the rock-n-roll album that her previous two albums were, and many fans felt betrayed.  We all expect our favorite artists to produce a certain type of music, and that’s why music fans are kind of unreasonable.  I can understand not liking a product that’s put out by a musician, but I can’t understand the concept of feeling betrayed by this.  Avril Lavigne and Liz Phair are free-thinking human beings who can make any type of music they want, and they’re under no obligation to make the type of music we feel we’re entitled to.

Here’s the stupid (and transcendent) thing about pop music fans (me included).  We’re not fans of the artist inasmuch as we’re fans of the way that their music makes us feel.  More specifically, we’re fans of how music reminds us of particular moments in our lives.  If music is nothing more than the sonic manifestation of our emotions, then musicians are nothing more than the mere chroniclers of them.  Have you ever been dumped by a significant other?  I suspect that you have, and I suspect that every song that was popular at that time seemed as if it was describing your exact situation.  For example, while I love Eternal Flame by The Bangles (yeah!) because it was the right song at the right time (urgh), I pretty much detest The Bangles for their post-Eternal Flame work.  We listen to musicians as if it’s our first time hearing them.  I listen to The Bangles with the ears of a love-lost middle-school dork, and it pisses me off that their new music doesn’t make me feel like I’m in a cheesy middle school romance again.  By that same token, this is the reason why artists such as the Beastie Boys and Coldplay never have this problem.  Every Beastie Boys song has sounded the same since Licensed to Ill was released in 1985 (which is why they appeal to exclusively old school hiphop fans and rock music fans with bad taste).  Also, every Coldplay single has sounded like a remix of Speed of Sound.  Their music hasn’t changed and neither have their fans.  This isn’t necessarily right or wrong; it’s a formula that works for them.  Avril Lavigne might be an idiot (this is true), but we shouldn’t fault her for reinventing herself every 2.5 years.  We should fault ourselves for not reinventing ourselves with her.

I don’t know if I necessarily believe everything I just said, but it makes sense at this time right now.  Why’d I have to go and make things so complicated?   Listening to Coldplay in my car might be pretentious, and listening to Avril with my windows rolled up might make ME a poseur.  But, I promise you you’re never gonna find me fakin’  it.  Nooo, noo, no…

Someone I frequently see at Starbucks is a 35-year old British dude named Harry.  Like myself, we are both considered “regulars” at this place because we spend hours and hours sitting on our asses on their comfortable sofa chairs while staring into our laptop computers.  Anyone who spends this much time at Starbucks must have a life with questionable redeeming social value.  I’m here on a Wednesday morning right now because I have nothing to do; I have no doubt that writing this post will be the most exciting thing I will do all day.   He is here and seems to be writing something as well, but what he is writing seems to be much more meaningful than this blog post that I am producing right now.  I haven’t seen him in a few days, so I ask him where he has been.  He says (note: his British accent is indicated by italics), “I’ve been going to the Starbucks on Maple Street.  You know, I just thought I’d try out another store.  Just to, you know…  I just needed to, you know...”  And then I say, “You just needed to change things up for a bit?”  And he says, “Yeah!  Yeah!  I just needed to change things up for a bit.  Yeah.  That’s what I wanted to say.  Yeah.” 

95% of my conversations with Harry follow this general format.  He never seems to be able to say what it is he is trying to say, and I always end up finishing his sentences for him.  And therein lies the paradox.  He is ostensibly English; yet talking to him is like talking to someone to whom English is a second language.  He might be the only Briton in the world who can’t speak English, which is one of the reasons I find him remarkably fascinating.  However, considering that I don’t know him all that well, it’s very possible that his accent may not be authentic.  From previous conversations with him, I know that he is an actor trying to get a break in the entertainment industry.  He could just be practicing his accent on a nobody like me.  He might be a Polish immigrant from Van Nuys.  How the hell should I know?  I’m not a linguist.

Anyway, I’m hoping that the more I talk to Harry the more his British accent (genuine or fake) will rub off on me.  To any American, the British accent is ridiculously irresistible.  It’s considered sophisticated and attractive, and I have no doubt that if I had a British accent it would compensate for my weird looks at least a little bit.  Being a “4” on the hotness scale, the accent might bump me up to a “5.5,” which would work wonders for my social life.  The most remarkable quality about the British accent is that it makes you immune from being a dick.  Let’s consider American Idol judge Simon Cowell.  He is obviously a prick on the show, yet he is undeniably the most popular of the three judges.  If Simon was American with, say, a New York accent and said the things that he said, we would have sent him back to Brooklyn a long time ago.   Also, if Hugh Laurie played Greg House with his normal English accent, it’s inconceivable that House would have gained his reputation as being a world-class asshole.

Simon, like Hugh Laurie, could probably pull off a good American accent because British people seem to do it easily.  I was floored the first time I heard Christian Bale speak normally and found out that he was a hardcore British FOB and not an American psycho.  I suppose that’s a testament to his skills as an actor.  Moreover, in the Batman films, he not only had to speak American but he also had to speak like a superhero, which is, apparently, with a deep, booming, growling voice from the depths of his diaphragm.  It would be interesting to see him play Batman as a Briton, though.  I suppose it would sound something like this (note:  superhero voice is indicated by BOLD CAPS and British accent is indicated by italics):

“EXCUSE ME, MR. JOKER, BUT DID YOU BLOW UP THAT HOSPITAL?”

 “No.” 

“MY APOLOGIES.  OFF YOU GO.”

I’m going to start drinking some of that bloody tea at Starbucks.