I wasn’t born an indie kid, obviously.

Somewhere in the dark back of time, I was just like everyone else. At 12, my favourite artists were Billy Joel and Bryan Adams. At 13, it was Bon Jovi. By 14 it was the Foo Fighters and Oasis. My mid-teens were lost in a Brit-pop haze. You get the picture. You might even have been the same.

In the lives of everyone who reads this site, or writes for it, there were experiences and people and songs that left a mark on us. We were spoiled for the ordinary. Sure, you turn on the radio and find gold in there but that’s never where it stops. The hunger is with you all the time and you can never again be content with what the playlists and promoters are pushing.

And then you wake up one day (or you might be in a club or on a train or watching TV) and realize that somehow you’re different. Your favorite songs, the ones that make you cry yourself to sleep, punch your fist, grin like an idiot, and dance like a superfreak, are different. Sometimes just plain weird. And you will play them to someone (your little sister, your boyfriend) and expect them to do the same goofy moves or at least say something like “wow” but they don’t. They just smile awkwardly and make some dismissive remark like “nice” or “interesting.”

I don’t think we stop and reflect on this enough.

Even if you live in a cultural wasteland (like I do), you can spend enough time online to convince yourself that everyone likes the music you do. That Sufjan Steven’s Illinois sold like hot cakes. That Rachel Stevens was the pop sensation of 2006. But it’s simply not true.

In my town (and in yours too possibly), all the girls are getting around in black-and-white-polka-dot dresses. They look like The Pipettes but I doubt they even know who Rose, Gwenno, and Riot Becki are. I could play them “Your Kisses Are Wasted on Me” and all I may get is a blank stare. The dresses may be “in,” but Phil Spector-revival girl-group pop isn’t.

Similarly, every man and his blog are talking about Beirut and the album Gulag Orkestar. I love it, but then I watched Serbian director Emir Kusturica’s Underground several years ago and wished I had more Balkan brass bands in my life. I’m not normal. The guy sitting next to me at the office could care less about how songs like “Scenic World” fuse the plaintive melodies of Eastern European folk with the rough-edged romanticism of Neutral Milk Hotel and the Magnetic Fields. Ah well.

This morning I tried to listen to the rather precious and cutesy lo-fi group Say Hi to Your Mom with the ears of someone who hasn’t been in torrid affairs with Pedro the Lion and Death Cab for Cutie. I couldn’t do it. Sure, the musicianship is rudimentary and the vocals are weak, but when Eric Elbogen sings about a girl who lives in her own little hipster world creating “Pop Music of the Future,” my heart breaks just a little bit.

Right now, I want to share my music with someone. I want someone to laugh at Say Hi to Your Mom’s reference to “Sunny Day Real Estate’s first record.” Lucky I’ve got the Stypod.

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