ast November, I took a job as the music editor at the Dallas Observer. I inherited about 500 bad CDs and a local music scene about which I knew almost nothing. Since then, I’ve been swinging the punches, with the occasional stumble and a few that land, almost miraculously, smack in the kisser. I write a weekly column, and toss off a feature with dangerous regularity. I see a lot of shows and get a lot of free CDs and a lot of phone calls like this:

Him: Yes, hello, I’m so-and-so, and I’m in a band that plays around town?
Me: [checking email] Yes. And?
Him: Oh, yeah, well we’re called Sucksville. Have you heard of Sucksville?
Me: [filing nails] Uh, no.
Him: No? Oh, okay, well I was hoping I could stop by and drop off a CD.
Me: [rearranging furniture] I’m not stopping you.
Him: Yeah, cool, all right then, and maybe you’ll review it?
Me: [enjoying a long, silent laugh] Maybe.
Him: Cool, because my mom is sick and our drummer just lost his hand in a thresher over the holidays and I sank all my money into this CD and it would be really awesome if …
Me: [suddenly feeling like a mean, insufferable crank] Oh my God, yes, of course. Yes, bring it buy. Christ, you poor thing. I can’t promise we’ll review it, but I promise I’ll listen to it. Okay? I give you my word.

Which is why I have a pile of crap local CDs next to my computer I can hardly bring myself to look at, far less listen to. But I promised. And I will. Eventually.
Of course, there have been plenty of pleasant surprises. Local bands that are terrific, inspired CDs I love hearing, amazing bands I’m just now discovering. (Has anyone heard of this Pantera? But I kid.) Thinking about music and listening to music and pretty much living to music has its rewards, not the least of which is that I can sing out loud all the time. That's something I recommend.