I am drawn by this design that seems to make no place for me, that makes no concessions to anything a person like me would find appealing. I am also drawn by the thought of listening to a revered musician’s rejected work. It gives me intimations of immortality — I’ve got so much time left that I can burn some of it listening to Beautiful Vision instead of Astral Weeks. I’m not worried about time. I’ve beaten the hype cycle. Listening to “bad” albums also indulges that arrogant side of fandom that leads me to believe that I can hear the greatness in records lesser fans are beguiled by. I am the only one who appreciates their merit; I alone understand where Morrison in his genius was coming from. I too am an artist, an artist of listening.
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