Dave Matthews: Sold Out or Sellout

I'm what you might call a closet Dave Matthews fan. I openly ridicule his giddy fanbase while secretly listening to "Satellite" in the privacy of my apartment. I even slide my bootleg collection under the couch whenever someone comes over to visit.

I haven't always been this hypocritical (at least, not when it came to music). Their debut album, Remember Two Things, was a fixture in my CD changer for longer than Titanic was in theaters. Dave's unique voice, percussive guitar lines and that damn violin were just too addictive for me to ignore. I even sat down with my guitar and entertained countless guests by playing the opening riff to "Crash Into Me" (yes, I was one of those guys).

But then fate dealt me a tragic blow. From out of nowhere, that evil being we call 'pop culture' came down and put an end to my fun. Dave's catchy hooks were no longer the secret of a select few. He'd become a genuine media phenomenon almost overnight.

I think the true scope of Dave's popularity really hit me just a little over a year ago. Anxious to purchase the newly released Live at Red Rocks, I drove over to good old Poindexter's for their midnight sale. In the heat of the moment, I sped through a red light and hit a small animal, just so I'd get there by the stroke of twelve.

That innocent optimism died immediately upon my arrival. Lined up outside of the store were clusters of giggling schoolgirls and a group of guys who looked like they should be over at K-ville camping out for next year's game. I naturally assumed they had come to buy the famed Hanson Christmas album, Snowed In. I was sorely mistaken. In each of their quivering little hands was a copy of the very album I had come to purchase.

What followed was a moment of personal clarity that seemed to last forever. Had I been deluding myself? Could I actually be in love with a mainstream pop group? Was it possible that I could actually be one of these people? My reputation as a pompous music snob was suddenly in jeopardy. I ended up buying a Miles Davis CD to salvage my self-respect.

For a long time afterwards, I went completely Dave-free. Sure, there were times when I'd be passing through main West and hear the addicting rhythms of "Ant's Marching" coming from a selective house window. Sometimes I even stopped and did a little dance. But, for the most part, I held fast to my convictions. I wouldn't cave in to popular sentiment simply because I 'enjoyed' the music.

But in the end, my sobriety wasn't meant to last. I started having withdrawal symptoms that would make a crackhead wince. I started singing the chorus to "Tripping Billies" in my sleep. It took a daily dose of Schlitz and Valium just to keep my head on straight. I won't lie to you-it was rough.