“If you have lost your true self, all phenomena bring you nothing but annoyance. If you discover your essence of mind, you can follow nothing but the true path.”

— Rankei Doryu, founder of Kencho-ji

My friend Robert, Bob in Another Life suggested I admit my “closet bands” — artists I secretly love but will receive mass amounts of shit for loving once I reveal my allegiance. Everyone has these … cassettes you keep hidden in an unmarked bag in the closet, albums you keep at your parents’ house but won’t let them throw out, CDs hidden among the masses. I will try to remember as many as I can. Taunt me all you want; I do not fear your condemnation.

Ratt — My heavy metal phase was very brief … it basically took me through junior high, two awkward years in between being hooked on Devo, Gary Numan and Sparks and discovering the Cramps, B-52s, Black Flag and the Dead Kennedys, which launched me into all kinds of wonderful shit. The only thing I took away from the heavy metal phase was a love of Ratt … an appreciation I just can’t shake. Even now I’ll find myself rocking out to tracks from “Invasion of Your Privacy” when nobody’s looking. I even saw them in exchange for a friend going to a punk show with me in high school. I pretended to not like it at the time.

Enya — Fine, it’s me and millions of new age housewives keeping her in business. You know you secretly love her voice; you know it helps you sleep sometimes. Maybe it’s the ancient Druid in me, even though the Celts didn’t actually augment their voices with synthesizers.

Don Henley — As much as I want the Eagles as an entity to explode, I have a soft spot for Don Henley’s solo stuff, especially “The End of the Innocence.” I even went to see him in concert in 1989 at the New York State Fair (with Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians opening, which totally ruled). I was happy when Mojo Nixon, after Henley joined him onstage to sing the song, said he would change “Don Henley Must Die” to “Glenn Fry Must Die.” That should have been the title in the first place — “You Belong to the City” and “Smuggler’s Blues,” you just can’t forgive that shit.

Courtney Love — I know, I know. She’s batshit insane and the total opposite of class and annoys everyone everywhere. She steals songs from Billy Corgan and rode on her dead husband’s coattails. Blah, blah, blah. She’s just misunderstood, OK? Don’t ask me to explain it in a way you will accept as reason … but damn, she drives me crazy. When I hear her sing “Malibu” I want to take her on a road trip and give her a footrub in a hotel room at the end of the day. When I hear her sing Fleetwood Mac’s “Gold Dust Woman” I want to run away with her and make out in a diner. When she pushes people off the stage then jumps into the crowd to beat some ass I want her to rape me. When she tries to write checks her voice can’t cash I want to give her a big hug and some tea and tell her everything’s going to be OK.

Eminem — I like one song. That “Without Me” song. I’m sorry, but it grew on me because they would play it at Mogambo when I was visiting Tokyo right as we all had perfect buzzes going and the whole bar would sort’ve fuse into a collective hysteria. Their speaker system is the only way to hear it. To this day when I hear it I want another shot.

Martika — Yes, I own the “Toy Soldiers” cassingle. I bought it when it came out in 1989. I still listen to the song sometimes. Fuck you all. I love Martika.

That’s all I can think of now. Anybody ready to admit theirs?

I ended up having that “Baker Street” song stuck in my head for more than two weeks. I got a copy of the song, which I played the shit out of, then got a copy of the Foo Fighters cover, which is phenomenal, but it stayed in my brain, refusing to pass through with time. This doesn’t really bother me, because there are far worse songs that can squat in my head.

One thing did bother me during my 100 playbacks of “Baker Street,” however: It just didn’t sound right. Granted, I probably haven’t heard the entire song since the late 70s, only snippets on “The Simpsons” or “Good Will Hunting” (I love that fight scene), but even after all these years I could tell something was wrong.

I struggled to figure out what was different, then it dawned on me — I’m used to hearing this song on a crappy little transistor radio, sitting outside at the community pool with my mom, smelling her Tropical Sun oil and feeling chlorine sting my eyes. This is how I experienced many 70s radio hits; my ears aren’t accustomed to hearing this song in stereo, much less with good sound. (Just like I can’t imagine hearing Queen’s “Body Language” unless it’s on the distortion-graced jukebox the community pool eventually installed.)

So much music is like that for me — forever attached to one format. For instance, when I first bought “Kiss My Ass,” I really dug the Dinosaur Jr. cover of “Goin’ Blind” … but it really bothered me, too. Jay Mascis seemed to do the song justice, but I kept thinking he left something out — maybe an entire stanza — and it bugged the shit out of me. Only after months of listening did I realize this was the first time I’d ever heard the song without the interruption of an 8-track program change. The fade-out, loud-ass CACHINK!, fade-in was an integral part of the tunage — I never had heard any song from “Hotter Than Hell” on anything but 8-track. I still don’t like hearing that song without the break.

Other it-has-to-be-on-8-track albums include Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy” and Funkadelic’s “Tales of Kidd Funkadelic”, which incidentally was my first bargain purchase, sitting in the 8-track discount bin at Wal-Mart. (My first cutout album was Rod Stewart’s “Blondes Have More Fun.”)

As I try to re-create my vinyl and cassette collections on my laptop (the originals are in storage in the States), I am reminded of how connected songs become to their medium. This is part of what will get lost, I fear, as digital becomes the only format. My brain wants to hear the garbled-tape static in a few old Modern English songs on tapes worn to hell over the course of two invincible teenage summers, or add just a tad of overplayed-vinyl crackle to the Replacements‘ “Answering Machine.” It’s the imperfections you start to miss. I won’t hesitate to buy nine inch nails on CD, but make it vinyl for those old Tom Waits albums, please.

Does anyone else have tunage forever linked to a certain medium in their hearts and minds?