'That Moment When You Realize You've Ruined Your Resume Forever'
Nick Hornby's Listening Party at Generation Records featuring Jon Ronson, Kimbra, Alison Moorer, Margaret Glaspy & Sam Kriss
July 15, 2025
West Village, NY
There exists a particular species of New Yorker who, when presented with the opportunity to descend into a tiny basement full of strangers to listen to obscure music they could easily stream at home, thinks: "Yes, this is precisely how I want to spend my Thursday evening." I am proudly one of these people.
Generation Records on Thompson Street has been a West Village fixture since 1992—a period during which most record stores have gone the way of rotary phones and affordable apartments. The invitation promised
and "friends" (always a dangerous proposition in NYC, where "friends" could mean anyone from legit celebrities to your host's dog walker who "has some curious thoughts on Steely Dan").
I've been a Hornby fan since 2007, when an ex-girlfriend with questionable taste in men but impeccable taste in literature handed me a dog-eared paperback of "High Fidelity." My favorite work of his, however, is not a novel—appropriately enough, it's his collaboration with Ben Folds on "Lonely Avenue," an album where Hornby's lyrics meet Folds' compositions in a marriage so perfect it makes me question why they haven't done seventeen more albums since.
"From Above" (above) remains my go-to karaoke song when I want to simultaneously impress and depress a room full of strangers. A close second is "Levi Johnston's Blues," the improbable ballad about Sarah Palin's almost-son-in-law that emerged from the bizarre 2008 election season when Johnston found himself thrust into the spotlight after impregnating Palin's teenage daughter. Only Hornby could turn this tabloid footnote into a song that somehow manages to be both satirical and sympathetic.
I arrived twenty minutes late, having been detained by a drummer on West 4th who seemed personally offended when I didn't stop to appreciate his rendition of "In the Air Tonight." By the time I arrived, the basement was already packed with Hornby subscribers and vinyl enthusiasts, slowly creating a human sweat lodge. Bodies were wedged between browser racks like tinned sardines, if sardines wore vintage band merch with Bose headphones around their necks.
The first thing I noticed was enough pizza boxes to construct a life-size replica of the Flatiron Building alongside a hefty ice bucket of beers and seltzers. One young man turned to his friend in a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt and said, “Which one d’ya want?” He replied, with no irony whatsoever, “Gimme seltzer.”1
I perched myself along the aisle of records under a part of the ceiling that had been removed to expose several prehistoric pipes. The air conditioning unit, clearly not designed for the body heat of sixty passionate music nerds, started a silent protest, dripping condensation onto a milk crate full of CDs below. A single drop landed with surgical precision on Toni Braxton's face, giving her album cover the appearance of her quiet weeping. No one else seemed to notice, all eyes fixed on the makeshift stage area where each guest would discuss two tracks that meant something to them, followed by a listening session.
Hornby kicked off the night by introducing his guests, sharing a lively old recording of Duke Ellington’s titled Ko-Ko. Then, after discussing his aforementioned friendship and collaboration with Ben Folds, he shared a track from the 2004 album Has Been called “That’s Me Trying” by Folds and William Shatner (or, as Hornby informed us on the night was his preferred nickname, “Shat”).
As Alison Moorer took the stage—the Grammy-nominated singer-songwriter whose memoir "Blood" chronicles her childhood tragedy with remarkable grace—the air conditioner's protests grew more insistent. I slipped through the crowd and relocated the increasingly moist crate of CDs, stacking it on another box of albums. By the time I resumed my spot, I'd missed part of her introduction but caught her explanation of choosing “I’m Looking for Blue Eyes” by Jessi Colter; the only song she went from singing harmony in to becoming the star of the show and singing the melody.
The room grew impossibly hotter as
took her turn. The New Zealand-born Grammy winner, known for her experimental pop and that Gotye song everyone hummed for all of 2012, recounted growing up worshipping Prince from afar (in particular, his album “Musicology”) only to later have him contact her directly to praise a track on her album. "He told another artist to tell me he loved it," she said, with a mix of disbelief and pride. The track in question was off her album “The Golden Echo” and was titled “Carolina”. Oh! and she also happened to receive a Grammy, presented by Prince back in 2013…As we intently listened, the puddle below the air conditioner expanded to the size of an American share plate, mirroring the dwindling pizza supply. Kimbra’s story about Prince inspired Hornby to jump up and insist that if Musicology were released in 2004 as a debut album by any musician, it would be an absolute hit. (It was, in fact, Prince’s 28th Studio album.)
Inspired by the Prince theme,
took the microphone early. The Welsh journalist and author, whose investigations of extremists and psychopaths somehow make you laugh, launched into a story about flying on the Concorde from London to New York alongside Prince, Mick Jagger, and Keith Richards. When the plane had to turn around due to leaking hydraulic fluid, Ronson reported that the passengers’ primary concern wasn't their mortality but whether they'd receive a customary £500 Marks & Spencer gift voucher for their inconvenience.At this point, the dripping had developed a rhythm so consistent you could have beat-matched it to the satirical old recording of Randy Newman’s “My Life Is Good” from his 42-year-old album Trouble In Paradise.
In introducing the Paisley track, Sam mused on something that I resonated with as an immigrant to the US: Much of what we expats see growing up on movies and TV was set in the towns and cities of America, where rather ‘ordinary’ things became very novel to us when we finally landed on these alien shores. They belonged, he said, “to the world of the image.” The average American might not think much of a diner booth with yellow ketchup bottles and thick bottomless coffee mugs, but we interlopers find them absolutely fucking enchanting.
Through it all, the audience remained raptly attentive, pizza slices suspended mid-bite during particularly poignant revelations. They were a curious mix: aspiring songwriters, middle-aged men who definitely owned alphabetized record collections, women with intimidatingly precise eyeliner, and at least three people who looked like they'd accidentally wandered in while searching for the bathroom at a nearby dive.
Finally, Hornby himself took the stage. The author surveyed the room with the quiet satisfaction of someone who's successfully gathered his favorite people in one place. After the final songs played and the last pizza slices disappeared, he offered an observation that sent a ripple of recognition through the room. Each of the night's guests, he noted, had experienced what he called an "Oh, fuck moment"—that point of no return when an artist realizes they're committed to a creative life.
"You're like, 'Oh, fuck. Well, now I've ruined my resume forever,'" he said, prompting knowing laughter from the audience of writers and artists.
I approached Hornby clutching a manila envelope containing three portraits I'd drawn of him in different styles—one as a pencil sketch, one in pen and ink, and a caricature that I hope captured his perpetually bemused expression. He accepted them with the grace of a writer who's spent decades receiving strange offerings from fans, studied each one carefully, and—much to my relief—did not punch me in the face. In fact, he asked about my Substack, which simultaneously flattered me and reminded me that I needed to actually finish this piece when I got home.
As I shuffled out, I noticed the puddle beneath the air conditioner had grown to such proportions that it now resembled Lake Michigan. Toni Braxton was completely submerged in moldy pipe water. There was no un-breaking that heart.
You can hear all the selected songs from the listening party here, though the sound of collective sighs of recognition from a roomful of people who had their own "oh fuck moments" are not included in the mix.
Thank you to
and for organizing this event!
I have a strong aversion to crowds and dark basements and yet, this piece made me wish that I had been there. The descriptions of the presenters and their music choices were great, but your focus on the ever-expanding body of moldy pipe water is what made the piece for me.
This is amazing. Nick Hornby is one of my top 5 favorite writers—my favorite book of his is A Long Way Down, which is somehow a hilarious story about depression and suicide. God knows he's the only writer who could ever pull something like that off.