Wendy Stonehenge last passed through these parts back here, and when he's not busy being awesome over at Archer's Guild, he's busy being awesome all over the microphone in the unfathomably groovy GLITTER WIZARD. Lucky for us, Wendy isn't too cool to avoid getting ashamed of himself now and then.
Please find his contribution to the ever-expanding pantheon of Guilty Pleasures Week somewhere below.
One quick look through my record collection would show that my tastes are not exclusive to heavy music. In fact, I listen to a lot of shit that many IC readers might find cringe-inducing. I am not ashamed to admit that I still think that Weezer's first release and Dookie are two of the finest albums ever made. I would put Incredible String Band and Steve Miller in my top twenty. I have on multiple occasions forced my coworkers to listen to the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack in its entirety and loved every minute of it. I listen to ABBA. But there is one CD in my collection that I don't play for anyone else. This is an album so embarrassing I won't even play it in the comfort of my own room if any of my housemates are home. I'm talking about Loreena McKennitt's Book of Secrets.
On paper, this is the worst thing ever. Start with some Celtic folk music (already a guilty pleasure of mine), add some washy new-age synths, throw in tons of sitars, tablas, and various middle-eastern instruments, and then top it all with some Tori Amos style vocals. Sound terrible, right? I should hate this but I don't. I think it's fucking gorgeous. It's like wrapping myself up in a warm, fuzzy blanket that I bought at the Lilith Fair.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
I recently came out as a Loreena McKennitt fan to my girlfriend and she told me that most of the punks and art fags she hung out with in high school were McKennitt fans, so maybe I'm not alone after all.