Thinking about Damien Jurado makes me think about how unfair life can be. Case in point: On the day I’m penning this blurb, I cannot avoid the clamor surrounding Best Coast’s meh-fest of a second album, yet had to ardently search to find reviews of Jurado’s latest folk masterwork Mariqopa back in February. The former is (maybe) one step above something the Dead Milkmen-influenced band that placed third in your high school talent show could’ve made; the latter is one of the most soulful, thought-provoking records to hit the shelves in years. But hey, everyone’s got to weigh in on the latest band meme, which is why even The New York Times thought it prudent to fly pop critic Jon Caramanica to L.A. to get the real story behind The Only Place and the most recent whereabouts of Snacks the Cat. I digress. Look, I have no personal issue with Best Coast. I was actually quite fond of the duo’s simple yet endearing debut, to the dismay of a friend or two, and I’ve been around long enough to know why someone as esteemed as Caramanica would haul himself on assignment to the promised land (according to Snacks’ owner). But my laissez-faire stance crumbles when I recall that no more than 10 or 15 people made it Jurado’s second-to-last show in Nashville, while I know that Ms. Cosentino might be able to sell out Marathon Music Works. Anyway, great artists have been overshadowed by novelty acts for a long time now, but I can’t help but think that something’s gone tragically awry given the (hypothetical-ish) scenario described above. Do not miss Jurado, Music City.