Frank Hajdu

Hakkımda:

"No matter how it looked,
Always kept one foot
Between records and books,
And the suckers got shook!"

(Atmosphere, "Road to the Riches," 2007)

Music makes my world go round … personally and professionally. Here's why ...

Genesis. No, not the Phil Collins-fronted 80's band. It was August, 1981. At age three, I parked it on my family’s living room couch and began watching MTV. Never really changed the channel for the next decade-and-a-half. While I’m proud to say I learned the alphabet before age 2, I’m prouder to say I learned the lyrics to Billy Idol’s “Dancing With Myself” before age 5.

First 45s. Van Halen's “Jump,” and Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue.” On a related note, my first DJ gig took place in kindergarten where I spun said records to the delight of 20 other bouncing five-year-olds, thereby inciting what could only be considered a markedly less prurient precursor to MTV’s “The Grind.”

First cassettes. Run-DMC’s Raising Hell and Beastie Boys' Licensed to Ill. Mom was nice enough to take me to the record store one morning in the summer of '86. I wound up purchasing this now-biblical pair of albums and experienced the most mind-blowing afternoon of my life, spinning both until my ears bled. While I've pretty much forgotten our nation's pledge of allegiance, I will forever be able to recite the lyrics to "Paul Revere" and "Peter Piper."

First concert. Debbie Gibson, Fall 1989, Meadowlands, NJ. Front row. Not my choice, I swear. Emotional scarring generally fades over time. But all I know is that even nowadays, a mere soundbyte of “Electric Youth” forces me to hide under a table in the fetal position and shiver uncontrollably.

Controversy. True story. Sixth grade. I hoarded my allowance and purchased -- without the accompaniment of an adult -- 2 Live Crew’s As Nasty As They Wanna Be on cassette from a Sam Goody in the Brunswick Square Mall about a week before Uncle Sam blew the whistle. The first local news report mentioned a sales clerk getting arrested from said store in said mall for selling the cassette to an 11-year-old boy. I still like to think that boy was me, as it has not yet been proven otherwise.

Best concert. Beastie Boys, Spring 1995, Madison Square Garden, NYC. We, seven 16-year-old Jersey suburbanites, had slept on the sidewalk months prior to get tickets. The big night finally arrived ... we jumped on a train to the big scary city, took our nosebleed seats, and somehow pushed our way to the arena floor over the course of an epic three-hour show. They played the entire canon. My eyes well up just thinking about it. A big sap, I am.

Tastes. To paraphrase the great Chuck Klosterman, "When it comes to music, if you say you like everything, then you actually like nothing.” That said, while progressive hip-hop and indie rock are my first loves, I have to respectfully disagree with C-Klo -- sorry dude, but I do actually like everything. One exception -- Country, you and I still need to figure this thing out.

Irony. I don’t play any instruments. I may love and live for music, but I can’t play a single note. My parents “gifted” me with an acoustic guitar in 2001. I quickly learned that if positioned correctly, an idle guitar makes for a stunningly chic coat rack.

Now. I stand alongside a kickass team of music-maniacs, our sleeves rolled up as we continually endeavor to create the most ridiculously fun and exciting online music experience the world has ever known. Stand back, folks -- MySpace Music is here to bring the ruckus to you and yours.

NON-MUSICAL ODDS & ENDS …

I’m a devout east coast soul wading through LA's gauntlet of smog, smiles, and smut. At some point, I’m going to start a support group called "New Yorkers Trapped in SoCal for Professional Reasons Other Than Acting." We’ll meet once a month, wolf down a dozen pizzas freshly flown in from Grimaldi’s, complain about the Knicks, and take turns cussing one another out for a solid 90 minutes.

I could eat Chinese food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. On many occasions, I have.

I revel in my secularity … but I can evoke the inner Jew as needed.

I don’t mind doing laundry. Not even a little. Folding linens is cathartic.

Dive bars > velvet ropes. Always.

Never could quite figure out why, but I have a strange fetish for obscure Midwestern states, namely the Dakotas, Montana, and Wyoming. I’d also take the trophy for “Area Code Trivia” if there were such a game. 7-3-2 baby … look it up.

At age five, I begged my fine, upstanding, biochemist dad to buy me a jokebook. The result: Frank toting around Blanche Knott’s Truly Tasteless Jokes Three. Imagine a kindergartner dropping f-bombs regularly and telling “What’s grosser than gross?” jokes during Thanksgiving dinner. Thanks, Dad! No wonder I was rarely invited back to friends' houses!

I don’t ski, but I love ski trips. Jacuzzi + snow + booze + fireplace = euphoria. Have fun on the mountain, I’ll see you back in the cabin.

I wouldn’t say I'm a complete OCD-laden germaphobe, but if I ever quit my day job, I’d make a killer spokesperson for Purell.

I am the most fun-loving drunk you will ever meet. Hope you like bear hugs.