Though I never listen to it now, I keep that disc-its surface barely scratched-because my wife organized my CDs a while back, and I had (of course) forgotten to label this disc in any way, so my wife-after being coerced even a second time by her care for me to discover its contents-scrawled this non-biodegradable judgment on the face of the disc in her delightfully angular pseudo-cursive: “Fela Kuti Rip-Off Band.”
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In that moment, I had proven myself no more penetrating than a “for fans of” algorithm.
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She’s a more discerning fan of Afrobeat jazz than I am, sensitive to vagaries of its substance more than just similarities of its surface. To my surprise and disappointment, she rejected my offering with naked disgust. In the dingy, black, zippered case containing my once impressive-now cringe-worthy and rapidly obsolescing-compact disc collection languishes a silver-faced CD-R I burned into existence with the excited expectation its musical contents-some new wave Afrobeat jazz-would please my wife. “Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear and forgetting where you heard it.”
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But you rarely find the Devil lurking in the little things. He’s much too vain to hide for long in anything but plain sight. That’s a misleading phrase. I guess they mean the Devil has his way when you don’t pay attention.