“Actually, I used to work at Area 51, dissecting dead aliens from outer space. The best part of that job was at night when I could zip over to Las Vegas using their flying saucers. Advanced technology? Hah! That space junk didn’t even have a place to plug in my iPod.”

I probably don’t need to tell you that one of the worst things about being single again is dating, especially first dates. I’ve sat in bars and restaurants telling my life story so many times even I’ve grown bored listening to it. I sometimes feel the temptation to start inventing new incidents in my life, more for my own entertainment than that of my date (“Actually, I used to work at Area 51, dissecting dead aliens from outer space. The best part of that job was at night when I could zip over to Las Vegas using their flying saucers. Advanced technology? Hah! That space junk didn’t even have a place to plug in my iPod.”). So far I’m too honest to go that route. But, yes, I did climb the seven highest mountains of the world before I was 13 years old, thanks for asking.

Eventually on these dates, once you get past the simple commonalities (“You like food? Me too! Let’s get naked.”), the topic of music will come up. This is because, as many of you know, I’m something of a music freak and the notion of
finding a, ahem, life partner who also grooves to everything from John Coltrane to the Velvet Underground to Ryan Adams is appealing to me. This leads to moments when I find out there really are people in the world who think Celine Dion is a great singer and that the best jazz music comes from a guy named Kenny G. And this is why I have so many first dates and so few second dates. Your heart can go on without me, thanks for playing our game – Johnny, please tell the contestant what she’s won.

So I get asked what my favourite albums are and who my favourite singers are all the time. Actually, answering that question is harder than it sounds. Part of it is that I don’t even know where to start. I don’t want to go too mainstream and lose whatever indie cred I can gather. If I get too esoteric, trying to prove the vastness of my knowledge by listing bands that practically no one else in Hong Kong has ever heard of, nine times out of 10 the person on the other side of the table starts looking at her watch and counting the toothpicks. Besides, I learned a long time ago that not many women will sleep with you simply because you have every album by XTC or Funkadelic. (Actually if even one woman would sleep with a man for that reason, I’ve yet to meet her. If you happen to be reading this and you are that woman, hello, my name is Spike, I’ve been waiting for you. Please write to me at spike@bcmagazine.net.)
So basically, when pushed to the wall, I start to rattle off too many groups or albums. Sometimes I just want to say that my favourite is Springsteen but then I feel compelled to add that everything he did from the mid-’80s onwards is admirable but I don’t love it the way I loved the stuff he did in the ’70s. And I might want to credit the Bonzo Dog Band with coming along when I was at an impressionable young age and really shaping how I thought, but that one always gets met with blank stares.

So I launch into a litany of names and groups. I start with the older stuff, because it’s stuff I’ve lived with forever, stuff that’s stood the test of time for me, and gradually work my way forward. Stones, Beatles, Who, Dead, Motown, James Brown, Miles Davis, Steely Dan, Clash, Dylan, Van Morrison, Neil Young, David Bowie, Pink Floyd, U2, George Clinton, Muddy Waters. The list just goes on and on and, unfortunately, so do I. By the time I reach Blur and Flaming Lips and Sonic Youth, my date is in a taxi and halfway home. Oops, I left out Belle & Sebastian and REM and Tim Buckley and Arcade Fire and Brian Eno and Graham Parker and Hendrix and the Kleptones and … well, you see what I mean. Once I get started, I can’t stop.

And, of course, (everyone has their guilty pleasures) those albums I like and continue to play on a regular basis even though I’d be hard pressed to defend them on any logical, critical basis. No, I’m not going to cite the 1910 Fruitgum Company or that album where Bruce Willis did something some people thought was singing. For me, Lexicon of Love by ABC with its way over the top Trevor Horn production, great melodies and clever lyrics, is one example, but all most people remember is Martin Fry in that gold lamé suit.

So sometimes I simply retreat into a list of what I’m listening to that week. This is an even greater exercise in frustration. I mean, I know there are people in Hong Kong who love Midlake and Drive-By Truckers and Wilco and think that Rufus Wainwright’s latest album might catapult him into the ranks of the superstars. I just don’t know where these people are or how to meet them.

Frankly, I’m tired and I’m getting too old for this. It’s time for a change. Perhaps I need to start saying that Abba was like, the best band ever except maybe for Twins and that I can’t let a day go by without hearing Hotel California and, Wow! that Bryan Adams fella can really rock the house.
On second thoughts, I’d rather be alone.