Purveyors of sound sift through the undesirable elements that surround them in every moment of consciousness, holding only to the forms that adhere to their aesthetic. The filtration is such that it may not be apparent to you as you stand behind the bizarre mix of Goths and Web developers moonlighting as balding amalgamations of Neo. Yet a tint of gray dampens the otherwise-golden radiance you exude, being one who has reached the heights of proficiency in comprehending and practicing all that is avant-garde. You realize that despite all the obscure Peruvian jazz albums you own, you’re still one of the dorks bobbing their head to Ladytron.

What was surprising about Ladytron’s set last Friday at Sonar (full disclosure: The club sponsored one of my past shows) was not the extravagant light show or the robotic androgyny, but rather the idea that I was unabashedly defending my enjoyment of the band to just about everyone I chatted with after the show. I had a good time despite myself. Ladytron is one of those bands you’re supposed to move on from, or not mention at a barbecue where noise dudes are hanging out. I got the memo — my hardware was upgraded, but somehow this band always manages to penetrate the firewalls that usually work when I’m pretending not to enjoy, “It’s a Beautiful Day,” while trying to pick out a good pork chop at Eddie’s.

I saw a number of hipper-than-thou folks tapping their feet to “True Mathematics,” but when I called them on it, you would have thought it was the Red Scare and I was Xeroxing copies of the Karl Marx bondage photos hidden under their mattresses. Yes, imagine folks … wait for it …. ah!

I don’t know weather it was the sinking of the S.S. Electroclash that happened shortly after the genre’s departure or the insatiable need for us to have all the right records for the occasion when that girl who looks like Bettie Page finally decides to come over, (climaxing at the site of your 7-inch collection), but we are certainly a fickle bunch, eh? Remember when everyone was sweating those first two albums back in ‘01 (604) and ‘02 (Light & Magic)? What happened?

I mean, I frickin’ loved a good Reuben sandwich in 2001. Guess what? I still do. What is it about bands/artists that gives them the shelf life of a carton of half and half (that doesn’t have the resealable plastic twist top)? Is it our ingrained reaction to being raised on consumer culture reflexes or an associative stigma that we place on stuff (i.e. I lost my virginity to the song “Roxanne,” so it’s not good to have on unless it’s 1997 and I’m having sex with a woman who would later go on to become a lesbian)? What’s up wit dat, Baltimore?

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