Indie-Rock Anonymous-A Testimonial by Derek C.

In the basement of a church on the Upper East Side, the chairs are arranged in a semi circle, four rows deep around a podium. The room filled with people aged 35 to 50, all casually dressed. Some are at ease with themselves, chatting quietly. Others look visibly nervous. Most have iPods and some are comparing their models with one another. A couple even have expensive phones. An aging balding man taks his place at the podium.

"Hello," he stutters, while clearing his throat. "My name is Derek."

"Hello, Derek," the crowd replies in unison with varying degrees of bordom, disinterest and aloofness.

The balding man struggles to find the words. He finds it hard to breathe even. Beads of sweat form on his brow. And after a minute or so he blurts, "My name is Derek and -- I don't like Sleater-Kinney!"

The crowd responds with polite but enthusiastic applause. A couple of younger people are staring in wonder.

"I've been trying to like them for 10 years now. More even. Ever since Robert Christgau gave Call The Doctor and 'A.'"

"You don't like Call The Doctor," asks one of the attendees, incredulously.

A tall woman with flaxen hair rises and admonishes him. "Remember, we do not judge in these rooms. We do not yuck someone else's yum, however, um, unorthodox that opinion may be."

"I tried, I really tried," Derek said with desperation rising in his voice. "I have every one of their albums because everyone said they're supposed to be great. The interlocking guitars. The impassioned caterwauling. The scathing indictments of white male heterosexual oppression. But ... but..."

"Yes, yes, go ahead. Don't be afraid."

"They can't sing! They have no gift for melody. Everything they sing sounds like a political treatise! It feels like humorless agitprop. I don't want to be screamed at all the time. Really, I like the Clash. I like Husker Du. I like Black Flag. Well, actually, I don't like Black Flag, but I just say I do. But I just don't like Sleater-Kinney. Is that so wrong?!!"

There is dead silence in the room. And suddenly the tall woman rises and applauds. Then several others rise and do the same. Before long, the entire room rises in support of the balding man, who smiles sheepishly, feeling confident for the first time in what seems like years.

"I think we've all learned something here today," the woman says. "It's ok to not like what critics unanimously like."

Another round of applause breaks out. "Yeah, I don't like Sufjan Stevens," cries a voice from the back of the room.

"Yeah, and Radiohead sucks." More applause.

"Right, and who the fuck are the Mekons anyway?"

"All of Randy Newman's songs sound the same."

The tall woman raises one hand and says, "You see, Derek? That's why there's 32 flavors."

Derek smiles and says to the crowd, "Thank you. For the first time, I truly feel at home."

The room fills with warm applause.

"And you know what? I heard Styx's 'Too Much Time On My Hands' in the Burger King the other day, and I liked it!"

The tall woman frowns. "All right. Stop talking now, Derek."