Deep Cuts

by Holly Brickley

There was also an incident in which the muttonchops guy had made fun of me for not knowing the Brian Jonestown Massacre and I’d responded by accusing him of being “all breadth, no depth,” a view I still held: music was a collector’s habit to those guys, a sprawl of knowledge more than a well of joy.

It’s just that authenticity seems to me only one metric by which to judge music, and I don’t see why it should swallow all the other ones, including beauty and fun.

I liked New York, I remember deciding in that moment. I liked working at home, then slipping out anonymously into a loud, churning world. It was just two different flavors of aloneness, but they complemented each other: when I had maxed out on solitude, the city made me feel observed and alive.

“You know I don’t do things halfway,” I said. “Which, by the way, is basically what it is to be a nerd.”

“Laid” by James was playing, everyone pogoing during the chorus, their greasy mullets splaying in the spotlights like pineapple tops.