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It's a culture, man.

It goes by many names. Acid jazz. Beat-hop. Some like French-touch or even trance. I barely understand these terms, if at all. For me, a white kid from the suburbs, I call it condo music.

It's easy jazz riffs: guitar, flute, trumpet. Add a drum and bass beat, and pepper with techno accents. Groovy man, but oh so today. Oh so urban. Groups like St. Germain or Thievery Corporation do it right.

Now, I'm no cutting edge type. Honestly, I read about this stuff in the Globe and Mail, or saw it showcased on Much More Music. I sought out the CDs at the local HMV or Indigo. They were on sale. I bought them. I listen to them. I feel hip.

Yet all of a sudden, wherever I go, I hear this music. Mostly at those places selling beige-wear to the condo types. I hear the music as I walk by. I press my nose against the glass and tap my foot to the familiar vibes. And yet, I harumph these shops with their chino-wearing, verveine smelling customers. "I've been listening to that music for months!"

But am I one of those? A wannabe player buying all the right music, all the right clothes, all the proper IKEA furniture... but all at deep discounts? One of those who "tsk, tsks" the condo elite who show up on the pages of Toronto Life Magazine, posing with their matching outfits and glittering smiles, their silver Jettas serendipitously parked a mere valet ticket away?

Yep, that's me! I do the whole "urban wannabe" package: Sunday brunch at Zsa Zsa, the subscription to Fast Company (not to mention Toronto Life), black clothes from head to toe. And don't forget the condo music. A package, a way-to-be: a culture.

Dig?!?

Andrew Duff, like, totally lives in Toronto, Ontario.