The Ten.

In Michigan, we got our first snowfall, sending me on a downward spiral of uncomfortably grown-up desperation, manifest in somewhat panicky refrains of "where did 2010 go?!"

My tendency to interpret time and life in music means that my memories of this year are mostly cast in sunlit images of too-hot days at festivals, too-cold nights fastwalking home from shows in bars and basements, marveling at the pretty lights (namedrop) that swirled at shows too plentiful to count. I am truly lucky and so stoked to have been alive this year to witness the amazing music that I've seen, and live the incredible life that I have lived this year...

But still, the question remains. (Where did the time go? Where DOES time go?! I'm buggin'...) And the dwindling of this particular year, an awkward decade-straddler, is sending the compartmentalizing, sorting, OCD side of me into a frenzy, and I'm seeing this year, even more than last year, as the end of an era.

From 2000 to today has seen an absurdly dramatic shift in nearly every aspect of life on planet Earth. Never before has time been so precious, in the sense that everything changes so quickly, and in such mindblowing ways. I realized this the other day when, at work, I found myself passive-aggressively "suggesting" that someone update his software, as his was from "two thousand three" and he was having trouble opening documents I was sending to him-- seven years? Really? Are we flying through technology at such a breakneck speed that we literally cannot communicate in terms that span seven years?

And so we radioheads, with our proclivity to communicate in terms of albums, songs, and, now, playlists (I fought it too, but let's be real) must try to make sense of it all. And we shall.

I remember the last song I heard of the 90s, the #1 song of 1999: Xtina's "Genie in a Bottle." Oh, the humanity of the 90s-- the hot trainwreck that was pop music in the late 90s, when all the music world wanted was a numb reprieve from the tension of the music of Kurt Cobain, Tupac, and Biggie Smalls, and then from the pain of their passing. And that's what we got: genies in bottles, granting wishes of schmaltzy braindead pop poured from pretty lips (on a less comical and slightly more cerebral level, the post-grunge of The Presidents, Weezer, and They Might Be Giants, the quenching jams of Phish and DMB, and so on).

In "The 2000s" (still so awkward!)-- the space between the harried, Y2K-fearing existence we knew in the last hours of the truly unfathomable 20th century, and now-- we knew what we wanted: we were a million uncertain pauper Jacks searching for the sonic equivalent of our magical beans, trying to grow not just miracles, but a sense of well-being that we didn't know where else to find: the collective fear and frightening uncertainty and finality of 9/11, the trauma of the Bush administration, a battery of natural and humanitarian disasters... all we wanted was an ephemeral moment of painlessness.

So why, then, was the music of the 2000s some of the most emotional and aware that we have ever seen? Why were we so competitive with one another as listeners; why were we engaged in an arms race for the esoteric? Why did we need to be the first to hear the new "emo" in high school (in my generation), and, when we grew up, the new "indie" bands?

And what the fuck is indie anyway?

But let's not go too far down that rabbit hole. I think one thing we can say for sure is that the music-- all of it-- of the 2000s, focused on catharsis. After all, in this decade, we felt just as much loss as in the 90s: we mourned our sad hero Elliott Smith, and lost legends like Ray Charles and Johnny Cash (and that other guy... what was his name? Michael something). We found ways to soothe our aching bodies, hearts and souls; we found ways to quell the sometimes desperate fear that gripped us when we watched Hurricane Katrina; the Christmas Tsunami; the toppling of a stone Saddam; American flags flying high over obliterated landscapes.

All the while, our shiny, white iTunes screens gave us something beautiful and organized, and pumped inexplicable bliss into our headphoned ears. Chris Carrabba reminded us that love was pain and could be consumingly soothing; Adam Lazzara screamed the same truths that Chris whispered. Widespread Panic, String Cheese Incident and Umphrey's McGee sought jam refugees still hurting from Jerry's passing, dissatisfied with the placid and harmless approach of Dave Matthews; and even he upped the ante on "Stand Up." Rock took a serious hit with the dominion of bands like Ni*kleba*k (I refuse to print their name in its entirety) and Kid Rock's self-proclaimed deity status (rock and roll Jesus you are not, sir), but rose to the occasion with new classics like the Black Keys and Kings of Leon. The weirdoes and nerds found their voices in a plethora of genres, styles, and sounds called Indie, and even they were cool (for the time being). And there we were, discussing it, loving it, hyper-analyzing and over-sophisticating music, making sure we dotted and crossed the proverbial i's and t's and downright KNEW everything there was to know. Some of us even became convinced that we could, and should, make a career of it. (...)

But that's what we had to do to survive the 2000s. Because, let's face it. We're scared. We all are. I don't even watch TV anymore because I am so perplexed, appalled, and frightened by the world around me. I know, by osmosis, that Katy Perry got married to Russell Brand last weekend and that Rhianna couldn't go because she had a busy work schedule, and effectively fired her entire staff because it was their fault for scheduling her work. I HATE THAT I KNOW THAT. And I hate that everyone knows that and does not know the first thing about what's going on in their own country, and in the world, as evidenced by the facts of the midterm election which took place on Tuesday-- which saw a record LOW turnout of the young voters; that's right, us, the same ones who stood up for Barack Obama, the same ones who pursued the overturn of Prop 8 and the very same people who will fight to the death for their opinions in stoned, late-night, living-room conversations.

But  we were a part of something amazing this decade-- amazing, in its many forms and connotations both good and bad. And that's because we-- as listeners, as musicians, as participants in the greater musical "scene" and movement-- ARE history in the making. If music is our catharsis, our safe place, so be it. This is a crazy time and it's ok to need something to hold on to. Love what you love, and love it well, but make sure that the places that you hide are up to you; the ways in which you hide are up to you; and don't let it be an excuse to numb yourself to the world around you. I mean... if we learned anything from the 90s, it should be just that; using music to numb the pain is ok. Hell, it's even good. But let's keep the genies in their bottles and start making our wishes come true ourselves... musically, politically, or whatever.