Obliviousness becomes me
by Delaney
Five years ago, writing for a music webzine would’ve seemed half-way between impossible and downright absurd to me. At twenty years old I could name about 10 songs and half of them were off ABBA Gold (not to knock ABBA, I still love those Swedes as much as the next guy).
I grew up in a noisy household with two sisters and several animals: if the radio was playing at any point, I certainly couldn’t hear it. Neither of my parents are, let’s say, well-versed in the world of music. An Alan Jackson CD or two snuck its way into the car on a road trip but that was the extent of my musical education. One memorable time I was singing along to AC/DC’s Dirty Deeds with a friend who let me get through the entire song before correcting me “it’s dirty deeds, not dirty jeans, done dirt cheap”. What can I say? Obliviousness becomes me.
Sometime in my early twenties I had hit a dead end on a YouTube rabbit hole and clicked a recommended documentary I had never seen before: Kathleen Hanna’s The Punk Singer. The zines, the pissed off attitude, the DIY ethos, the low-fi of it all- I was hooked. I spent the next few years playing catch up. I started with the 60s and worked forward. Blaring Iggy Pop, The Slits, Bad Brains, Fugazi and Bikini Kill, I became music obsessed. I planned my whole day around which songs I’d listen to on the commute to university, while I was in class and, when I could get away with it, with one headphone in during my shifts as a waitress. I talked to friends exclusively about bands, each Sonic Youth anecdote I told I thought to be both inspiring and illuminating (in reality I’m lucky any of my friends from this period still talk to me). Eventually I hit it, present day. No more music. Of course, there’s always more to listen to, always new LPs and splits coming out. But it wasn’t the same. My voracious appetite wasn’t satisfied. Covid hit and live music dwindled.
I found myself alone and, for the first time in a while, in silence.
Say what you will about AI and algorithms but thanks to my near all consuming obsession with high gain guitar riffs I was recommended the Instagram page of a webzine- Scene Point Blank. After a seven hour long deep dive into their archives I knew I’d found what I was looking for: fans. They loved music the same way I did. Reviews were kind, appreciation wholehearted, they were unafraid to truly enjoy the overdriven chug chug chug of a palm muted guitar. This one was for the fans.
Since then I’ve been lucky enough to write for Scene Point Blank and continue to read the work of my now colleagues. Despite my waves of procrastination there’s few things I love as much as the drive SPB gives me to discover and write about new music. To me, SPB is emblematic of true blue music appreciation and, when called for, obsession. Here’s to 20, or 21, more.
