The Gauntlet

Throwing it down here, baby. Despite similar tastes, you and I disagree on enough music to let a few sparks fly. So this here blog will be our Thunderdome, our Battle of the Network Stars, our Urgh! A Music War. This is it — it's go time, bitch.

I'd like to propose some list-making, but that is the most hackneyed goddamn thing a music lover can do, so I'll start off elsewhere (and I know that we will be making bloody lists before long).

My first challenge to you: Defend Robert Palmer.

I see Palmer as a dime store Bryan Ferry, a cut-rate version of what amounts to a questionable phenomenon in the first place: the British white-boy torch singer. I don't deny that Palmer has had a few moments here and there, but I can't help but view his coat, tie and artificial smoothness in the harsh, blinding reflection of the impeccably mannered and sexually sophisticated Mr. Ferry. Was there another soul in the 20th century who could make excessively perspiring in a bespoke suit so damn, well, erotic? I don't think so.

Robert Palmer may have become ubiquitous from a clever music video, but today I think the image of mindlessly swaying, robotic models is all that remains of his legacy. Mildly talented and never quite as suave as he would have us believe, he deserves little of our attention, and certainly not the position in your music collection that he currently occupies. Keep a couple of the hits and toss the rest out. You need the space on your iPod.