The beta-male sleeps alone tonight

I generally share the same taste in music as my good friends Nathan and Seth. Generally. They both express a certain admiration for the “J.T.’s” – That’s James Taylor, for those of us born before 1990 and Justin Timberlake for all those other Johnny-come-latelies. I’m not on board with Brittany’s ex, for the record.

Before my wedding, my friends burned me a copy of The Postal Service’s Give Up. The first two tunes, “The District Sleeps Tonight” and “Such Great Heights,” are pretty nice. Catchy. Atmospheric (apparently “Such Great Heights” has been featured on a couple shows I don’t watch like Grey’s Anatomy and One Tree Hill and is, dare I say it, kind of popular). Then the album proceeds to get well… Sorry guys… Terrible. Bloody, freaking terrible.

I’ve tried to listen to it. Honestly. It’s in my car. I’ve probably been through the album 10 times now hoping that the British Music Phenomenon occurs. Whenever I listen to anything from Great Britain (Radiohead, Oasis, Travis, Coldplay, The Smiths) I acknowledge that the first two play-throughs will not impress me. But if I stick with it, I’ll be rewarded. With very few exceptions this is always the case.

Not so with The Postal Service. This band has all the relentless whininess and wussyness of Dashboard Confessional, but none of the raw testosterone and machismo of Dashboard Confessional front man Chris Carrabba. Dreamy.

I’ve unabashedly proclaimed my love of such wuss-rockers as R.E.M., Rufus Wainwright, Ben Folds , and the original J.T. But there’s something that those artists bring to the table that The Postal Service does not. Irony. A tongue-in-cheek suggestion that, if they wanted to, they can bring the funk. They can, to borrow an expression from Mr. Folds, rock this bitch. They just do this beta-male thing to get chicks (or dudes in Rufus’ case or … Jesus, I don’t know, in Michael Stipe’s case). The Postal Service is so unbelievably sincere it makes me want to vomit. They kind of remind me of this poor fella.

Beta-male music holds a special place in my heart. It was the music I listened to when I couldn’t get the girl in high school. It was the music that comforted me when I couldn’t get the girl in college. It’s the perfect music to listen to when you’re not getting the girl. You can relate to it. It speaks to you. It tells you you’re all right, and your good intentions are just being misunderstood.

Let me be frank. If I continued to listen exclusively to artists like R.E.M., Radiohead, Jeff Buckley and The Postal Service, I probably still wouldn’t be getting the girl. I’d still be lamenting my kind, passive-yet-passionate-yet-misunderstood romantic nature.

Thankfully, after college, I moved in with some guys who listened to DMX, Wyclef, Ice Cube, Ice-T, (pretty much anything with Ice in it) and… The Rat Pack. No beta males in that group. As I learned to embrace this music (secretly at first), I found my attitudes changing dramatically. What’s the major difference between this music and wuss-rock? Confidence. Wuss rock gives you absolutely no confidence. Frank Sinatra, on the other hand… fuhgetaboutit.

By-and-large, my wife enjoys my wuss-rock collection. We’re wuss-rock kind of people. But I think it’s safe to say she didn’t fall in love with Losing-My-Religion-Joe. I truly believe Losing-My-Religion-Beta-Male-Joe would have found a way to screw up everything. It was What-These-Bitches-Want-Fly-Me-To-The-Moon-Joe that found a way to close the deal.

So, fellas, before you head out for that big date, for the love of all things good, take Give Up out of your CD player or your iPod playlist. Throw in a mix of Frankie Blue Eyes, Dean-O and Wyclef, okay?

Now, go out there and crush some ass, bitches.