A matter of profile

Oh, last.fm seemed like such a wonderful concept when I joined not so very long ago. The music site would miraculously create my perfect radio station through the mysterious 'scrobbling' of those tracks played on my computer and MP3 player, its player providing me with the songs I already adore, mixed with unknown little gems that would lead me on to acts that I would subsequently worship and adore. Not only that, but it could recommend artists to listen to, videos to stare goggle-eyed at, gigs to go to, badges to adorn my man bag with, and other such useful things. What's not to love?

My last.fm music profile, that's what. Initially I thought it was a great idea - sometimes I still do - enabling me to easily list the musicians I actually listen to, rather than coming up with my own crummy, clumsily written attempts. (One that I'd initially have to update constantly to correct the multitude of mistakes, before then getting bored and leaving it to become increasingly, embarrassingly out of date.) Yep, I could use the power of Web 2.0 to ensure my thousands of social networking buddies - all close, close friends - could look at my 'Top Artists This Week' and, by then visiting the actual page, could then view my 'Top Artists Overall', thus providing an unadulterated, no-holds-barred account of my listening habits, good or bad.

But such transparency doesn't allow for the vicious streak of vanity that seems to splatter my guilt-sodden soul. My last.fm page became an online representation of myself, and - just as with other things of this nature, such as unflattering profile photos and revealing friend comments - suddenly the gimcrack, unedifying reality of my actual existence turned out not to be what I was wanting represented.

For instance, previously

I could quite enjoy those rare moments when I was walking around and a Limp Bizkit track came on thanks to random play (hey, there's only a couple of their tracks on my MP3 player - the one rhyming nookie with cookie and another unreleased, unintentionally hilarious dazzler about Fred Durst's 'relationship' with Britney Spears - both of which are strictly for entertainment value, you understand). Sometimes Too Funky by George Michael would gloriously introduce itself and I'd gleefully play some of his Greatest Hits, inwardly cackling at how amusing it was that no passers-by could possibly be aware of the camp ridiculousness being streamed directly into my ear drums.

No longer. Instead I worry about those anonymous, unseen spectators who - in a successful bid to boost their own sense of superiority - browse my statistics while online, only to find out that I often listen to the sort of dreck that would make even H from Steps feel a little dirty on the inside. My secret shame is there for all to see, and yet I perversely feel too honour-bound to try and manipulate the data being fed into the system, leading to an acute and painful self-awareness that I am indeed a complete dufus who can't possibly look down on anybody else's listening tastes. Ever. Again. Not even that guy who listens to Type O Negative, because now he can find out that I listen to Black No. 1 with alarming regularity.

Then there's the problem that some artists are played way more than others because of track length, or aren't even recorded because the track length was too long, such as on single-track dance mixes. Therefore Dave Clarke appears pretty much nowhere, and I dare not listen to any Napalm Death (not that I did previously though, to be fair). Indeed, DJs doing remix albums are unlikely to feature as they rarely remix their own tracks.

And those artists I listen to when I trying to get to sleep get a disproportionate airing, their records repeatedly repeating as I snore contentedly away. If no one can hear them, are they making a sound? Such cod philosophy matters not to last.fm. I mean, I do like Camille, but not nearly so much so that she has triumphantly trounced all comers to officially top my 'Top Artists Overall'. She'd be, maybe, at about 43 or so. I think. People must also think I'm a huge Battles megafan as well, when in reality I'll be asleep long before the midway point of Mirrored, so can't even name any of the latter tracks off their debut album. Goodness, I don't even own any of their famed first EPs, which is going to prove really embarrassing when the guitarist - you know, that guy with the hair - shows up on the doorstep to present me with a limited edition signed balaclava or something.

(I won't even go into how egotistical I think it must make me appear that the two acts I am a part of appear sandwiched in between Camille and Battles, right at the top of everything I've apparently ever listened to ever. Shame certainly feels like an appropriate emotion.)

Oh, plus I get uber-frustrated when putting something on a player that's not going to record my choice for posterity - you know, like one of those there car stereos that isn't hooked up to the internet. It's as though I'm being cheated out of the recognition that I so desperately feel I deserve, especially if it's something really, really cool that might just boost my flagging rep (I now get openly laughed at in the street, by gormless gonks able to glean that I've been listening to the new Korn album many, many times over). The foreknowledge infuriates me so much that sometimes I'll simply sit in silence instead, getting all cross and huffy like a stroppy, emotionally illiterate teenager, as my entire day is again ruined by the supposed evolution of our information age. Perhaps it's time to reclaim that refreshing anonymity the internet initially offered up and get rid of my profile page: at least then only I'll be aware of how rubbish my music tastes really are...

Baaaaad

Gooooood