From Abba to Supertramp, my taste in music has often inspired a rising sea of scorn. But whatever. I am cool with being uncool
O
n a first date, relatively recently, I put on one of my favourite albums. It was only later that the woman in question described her distress. It wasn’t terminal, but it wasn’t far off. “I just had to accept that you weren’t the man I thought you were.” Blimey. “I thought you might have bad taste in a heavy metal kind of way, but I wasn’t prepared for this yacht rock.”
This album I’d long loved was, apparently, irredeemably naff. It was Breakfast in America by Supertramp. Earlier this week, when I heard that the band’s co-founder Rick Davies had died, I was sad. Does this make me even naffer? I suspect it does.
But I don’t care. I go back a long way with Supertramp. I had all the albums; the day after my last A-level exam, a friend and I went to London to see them at Earls Court. I bought a sleeveless T-shirt from the merchandise stall, which was doubtless naff, and I wore it for years, which presumably was also a naff thing to do. Naff, naff, naff. Whatever. I just don’t care. I embrace my own naffness. What’s the alternative? Choose something else to enjoy? Pointless. You don’t choose what music you like any more than what football team you support. These things choose you.
