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  • My music taste isn’t fresh anymore.

    It’s happened.

    I’m thirtyish and the devotion to discovery of it (a pronounced mark of a youthful heart) has been choked out by a mandatory information upkeep that spills over onto my down time, through my drive-time, and washes away my quiet time.

    For instance, album of the year – Adel’s 21 – I just bought right after I watched her perform tonight on the Grammys.

    Sure, I’ve heard that song. The beat grinding out while the piano pounds down. That voice. Those back up singers. But I didn’t know it was Adel.

    All of you had that tune delightfully lodged in your mind last year.

    But plugging into the 24-hour news cycle is necessary for this working stiff, whose cred is only as good as the info I'm on top of.

    It’s exhausting.

    This overload pours out of my professional vices: the smart phone, the laptop, cable news, NPR and the shameful preference of A.M. frequencies.

    It’s hard to admit I'm no longer a master of the undiscovered band and righteous judge of all those prior generations and their tired music.

    At least I don’t drive a minivan. Yet.
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