Picking your Top 100 ain't a piece of cake

Last Thursday in my journalism ethics course, our teacher covered the topic of detaching yourself from those you cover so as not to be biased. Don’t give and receive gifts. Don’t display your political views. Keep the relationship with those on your beat from being publicly overly friendly.

On Friday, I meet one of the foremost rock music journalists Greil Marcus. An audience member at Greil’s speech asks about Rolling Stone’s list of the top hundred songs. Greil argues that such a list is dull when done by a panel to remove personal bias. The more interesting list is an individual’s personal one. When he describes his favorite song “Like a Rolling Stone,” by Bob Dylan, it’s enrapturing. His language locates the song’s ability to lead him through a free and wild mental journey where he cannot expect the next turn.

Loch Lomond arrives to play a show for my production company on Saturday afternoon. I don’t have enough time to make them dinner but they’re gracious, lovely and excited for the show. A decent-sized crowd fills the venue. When the band plays, they sound like The Decemberists’ “Mariner’s Revenge Song” turned into a band. It’s as if you can sit inside the spirit of that one song for an hour with dim lights. No microphones. An accordion. A guitar case used as a kick drum. Tambourines. Long rubber hoses. Whale sounds.

We have an afterparty at my house. The barrel of Jungle Juice has been transformed into a robot with the spout being a very realistic piece of robotic genitalia. A girl from England dances with us to Fergie’s “London Bridge.”

The night goes on. The world fuzzes. We sing along to the entirety of the album “Pinkerton” by Weezer. Everyone gets to be Rivers Cuomo and sing the vocals. Everyone gets to do the air guitar solos.

Everyone gets to be the insecure high school student they were and softly sing the lyrics to “Butterfly” while laying on the ground.

At 6 a.m. everybody finally leaves. I want to find my “Like a Rolling Stone.” I lay down in my bed and listen to “Hummingbird,” by Wilco, and follow strands through my jumbled head; melodramatic mix tapes for friends back home when I got homesick my first year in college. My favorite concert in San Jose where I spent $200 just to be sitting in the fourth row when Jeff Tweedy played. All of that somewhere leading to me being a KCPR DJ my second year in college. Which leads to me running a production company my third year. Which leads to me writing a music column.

Living in songs leads me to my status as a music columnist but not a music journalist. I could never be a journalist. I’m too attached to the whole mess. I want to make sure that Loch Lomond gets gas money so they can put on shows to make people sit in The Decemberists songs.

And I want to get everybody whose albums I have on my computer to play in San Luis Obispo so I can meet them and figure out who they are and eat dinner in my house with them. I know I have no credibility as a music journalist because I’m idealistic and overly emotional. I’m OK with that and hopefully it makes me a decent columnist.

Show tip: The Finches will be playing with Allison Milham at the Steynberg Gallery at 8 p.m. on Friday. Five dollars buys you a night of folk beauties.