Jeremy Larson does the best Michael McDonald impersonation that I’ve ever seen. It’s low-toned, muffled, and sounds like a decade’s old Trans-Am chugging around San Francisco’s concrete slopes on a rainy day. Oddly enough, the only person that comes even close is the artist himself in one of his Ã¼ber-ironic self parodies (something he’s done fairly recently). Granted, anyone can channel McDonald’s funky baritone, and it’s an entertaining voice to dabble with, but Larson’s is a cut above the rest. For some reason, I think about this every time I hear The Doobie Brothers’ “Listen to the Music” – even if it’s in the shower, post-gym, and I’m singing along, too.
I recently watched every episode of Breaking Bad in under two weeks. Last September, I consumed all five seasons of The Wire in about three-and-a-half weeks. Eastbound & Down clocked in at a little over four or five days (I was busy). In 2010, I re-watched The X-Files – all 202 episodes – from September to December. A year before that, however, I consumed all four seasons of Lost in about five weeks flat. I’m not proud of myself.
Since I’m from one of the most geographically despised areas of the states, and since I’m a card-carrying member of one of the most confused generations of the past 50 years, it saddens me to know that I’ve never really had a proper musical curator in life. Too many of my friends spin stories of older siblings or sage-like friends who lent them that life-altering album. I never really had that. There’s my father, who stopped actively buying new albums shortly after Springsteen’s Human Touch, and there’s my mother, who never really understood the concept of buying albums to begin with. As she always instructed, “Why don’t you put on the radio?”
Therein lies the problem.