Is it the testosterone?

I think my long love affair with girl singers is over. For a couple of years now I've been all about Shawn Colvin and Kim Richey and Alana Davis and, more recently, women like Anna Nalick. Still love 'em, don't get me wrong, but I've indulging elsewhere lately. With ... well, boys.

I grew up in new Jersey, for one, so a certain predisposition to straight-ahead rock (thank you, Bruce) was bred into me with a love of the boardwalk, Taylor ham and cheese sandwiches, and full-service gas stations. I never really grasped the appeal of hair bands, but I loved me some AC/DC and all the old legendaries (the usual suspects, the Who, Zeppelin, the Stones).

And now? I find myself singing along to Nickelback much more often than even Pink (whom I love like cake, and sort of worship), and flipping to VH1, obstinately hoping to see some Daughtry or the new Foo Fighters.

Maybe it's a state of mind thing. Songs like Rock Star make me want to get in the car, put the windows down, turn the volume up, light a cigarette, and SING. Straight-up rock like The Pretender is for air guitar and a cold beer out on the porch. 

As methods of stress release go, I think I could do a lot worse.