They could be rolled out from factories that churn out picture-perfect pop stars and pint-sized instant celebrities by the minute; or be patiently bred and lovingly homegrown, turning an unimaginable amount of blood, sweat, and tears into a story of pure inspiration, moving not just across all seven continents but the hearts of millions as well.
But there is certainly no denying that they will be the ones expected to fill the big shoes left behind from icons of our yesteryears: they may well turn out to be The Beatles of the sixties, the New Kids on the Block of our generation, the Backstreet Boys of the future.
It could go either way, really – achieve massive popularity that will see everyone worship them from all four corners of the earth, or become the best well-known secret in the darkest recesses of the indie music universe.
And it would have been perfectly fine, except that while I do prefer the likes of Silberman, Pecknold and Philippakis – who are all, incidentally, younger than me – I find that they also make me feel rather… inadequate. Writing about every night having their teeth falling out, dreaming of being as old as the mountains, and crooning about the future rust and dust of spanish saharas: these words may sound like dry commentary should they end up in the hands of the ordinary, but thanks to the aforementioned trio, here they somehow end up becoming pearls of wisdom instead.
It is as though I have missed the last train out, and now have to rely on them to make my dreams happen – and no, they do not quite work the same way.
I feel wretchedly old. Sigh.