Pump up the volume

It occurs to me sometimes that this column is, essentially, one long and painful confessional. I admit to enjoying all this unfashionable and uncool music so others don’t have to. ‘Ah, the man who likes Supertramp,’ someone once said to me at a party, just before he was stabbed by an unknown assailant. No one would say anything so sneering or discourteous to an actual member of Supertramp, current or former, which suggests that their fans must suffer on their behalf. My own suffering includes the purchase of their double live album, Paris, in or around 1980. In this they play note-perfect renditions of their hits, with added applause. If I still had the receipt, and the shop that sold it to me still existed, I would have half a mind to ask for my money back.

Being a polite sort of person, though, I try to ensure that my musical tastes do not impinge on the rest of humanity more than they have to. Certain favourite bands are only played when the woman I live with has gone out somewhere. She is barely in the car and driving away before Steely Dan are on the CD player and I am weeping tears of rage and ecstasy as the guitar solo on ‘Glamour Profession’ reaches its squealing climax. Usually, though, I try to keep the volume down and the neighbours happy. We are all a little scrunched together in this road and there are certain conversations you want to avoid having. ‘Was that Wings’ London Town you were playing this morning? Did punk never happen?’