Musical Musings: The Universal I
The Egalitarian Elitist: The Musical Revolution
This is a call to arms, all attached hands, and ears. Oh, the ears. It’s time to employ guerrilla tactics against the major media monoliths (and poor personal judgment), whether that means sauntering down sidewalks shouldering blaring boomboxes or accosting quizzical citizens with smiles (or convincingly intimidating glares) and palms extended, offering headphone-equipped portable-music-players[1]. Listen.
Only after a person escapes the omnipresent waves of popular sound can they engage in unplanned philosophical musing, forming answers to quintessential conundrums: for instance, why must I (the universal music lover) always play DJ in the car or in the proximity of any music-playing-mechanism? Honestly, it’s largely an ego issue, but just as much an instinct derived from an intrinsic sense of humanism. I'm performing musical highlighting, trying to make sure you hear (even if you can't comprehend) exactly what makes the best music so good. My mission is to, at least, provide you the opportunity to enjoy the hard earned rewards of that unalienable but mistakenly omitted fourth truth “we hold…to be self evident,” to have the chance to hear the best music, (in the words of Jefferson[2]) to “get krunk!” and “rock out!”
It’s a pointless debate; personal music preferences define an individual’s realization of perfection. In a sense, personal tastes are the 0 of musical affinity, delicately balanced and perfectly aligned; another person’s tastes can merely approach that level, the futile quest to solve for Y=0 in the equation Y=1/X. Any fully- (even semi-) developed human knows the same.
But unless you’ve experienced an essential metamorphosis of taste – and I have, several times, actually, especially after my middle school debacle of a diet, limp bizket and korn – an epiphany that enables listeners to admit entire eras of their ears’ enjoyment have been clogged and or contaminated by immaturity or trendiness or underexposure, then you’re guaranteed to carry zero clout in always animated arguments about supremacy of the senses.
You’ll be tuned out faster than Scott Stapp in any self-respecting Strung Out or Suicide Machines fan’s car, probably by the iPod they’ll immediately brandish for self-preservation, desperation necessitating a few seconds of perilous driving so the musically sensible driver’s hands might return to the steering wheel they belong upon – instead of involved in either of two acts of strangulation, an act of ear destruction, or a less extreme act of ear-covering, any and all similarly dangerous in consideration of general driving safety.
Sure, being unlike me is a circumstance known to prompt exclamations of relief from birthing parents, and regular instances of general celebration in several cultures, but it’s the rare cognizant being that doesn’t share my unadulterated delight at discovering some new sound to stimulate ossicles and titillate tympanic membranes. Except for strangely secretive lemonade stands that appear alongside heavily wooded trails during long runs on the hottest of days, there’s nothing more refreshing than new – and it doesn’t have to be chronologically new, just new to you – music to explore and obsess over, listening on repeat, memorizing lyrics, lying in bed or getting hyphy, humming a tune sipping tea in the shade of sycamores or thrashing toothless and bloodied before trembling amplifiers.
The last nail in the argument is that old anti -suicidal and -homocidal adage: “A kickass new band each day keeps the shotgun from spattering brains away (in a symphony of red and grey).” In a truly fair world, denying an insistent tune-wielder the chance to shuffle your perceptions would precipitate divinity driven deafness.
[1] Who the hell are we kidding? Offering your iPod. Admittedly, I have a strong Apple bias, but what better way is there to keep days, even weeks, worth of music in your pocket?
[2] This is a possible citation error. The original document, an unfortunately not-copied-or-otherwise-preserved letter from Jefferson to a political acquaintance, was ruined by a urinating frat-boy after the letter was displayed and paraded at a lively keg party. Verification of the quotes was rendered impossible; thus, I must rely on memory.
This is a call to arms, all attached hands, and ears. Oh, the ears. It’s time to employ guerrilla tactics against the major media monoliths (and poor personal judgment), whether that means sauntering down sidewalks shouldering blaring boomboxes or accosting quizzical citizens with smiles (or convincingly intimidating glares) and palms extended, offering headphone-equipped portable-music-players[1]. Listen.
Only after a person escapes the omnipresent waves of popular sound can they engage in unplanned philosophical musing, forming answers to quintessential conundrums: for instance, why must I (the universal music lover) always play DJ in the car or in the proximity of any music-playing-mechanism? Honestly, it’s largely an ego issue, but just as much an instinct derived from an intrinsic sense of humanism. I'm performing musical highlighting, trying to make sure you hear (even if you can't comprehend) exactly what makes the best music so good. My mission is to, at least, provide you the opportunity to enjoy the hard earned rewards of that unalienable but mistakenly omitted fourth truth “we hold…to be self evident,” to have the chance to hear the best music, (in the words of Jefferson[2]) to “get krunk!” and “rock out!”
It’s a pointless debate; personal music preferences define an individual’s realization of perfection. In a sense, personal tastes are the 0 of musical affinity, delicately balanced and perfectly aligned; another person’s tastes can merely approach that level, the futile quest to solve for Y=0 in the equation Y=1/X. Any fully- (even semi-) developed human knows the same.
But unless you’ve experienced an essential metamorphosis of taste – and I have, several times, actually, especially after my middle school debacle of a diet, limp bizket and korn – an epiphany that enables listeners to admit entire eras of their ears’ enjoyment have been clogged and or contaminated by immaturity or trendiness or underexposure, then you’re guaranteed to carry zero clout in always animated arguments about supremacy of the senses.
You’ll be tuned out faster than Scott Stapp in any self-respecting Strung Out or Suicide Machines fan’s car, probably by the iPod they’ll immediately brandish for self-preservation, desperation necessitating a few seconds of perilous driving so the musically sensible driver’s hands might return to the steering wheel they belong upon – instead of involved in either of two acts of strangulation, an act of ear destruction, or a less extreme act of ear-covering, any and all similarly dangerous in consideration of general driving safety.
Sure, being unlike me is a circumstance known to prompt exclamations of relief from birthing parents, and regular instances of general celebration in several cultures, but it’s the rare cognizant being that doesn’t share my unadulterated delight at discovering some new sound to stimulate ossicles and titillate tympanic membranes. Except for strangely secretive lemonade stands that appear alongside heavily wooded trails during long runs on the hottest of days, there’s nothing more refreshing than new – and it doesn’t have to be chronologically new, just new to you – music to explore and obsess over, listening on repeat, memorizing lyrics, lying in bed or getting hyphy, humming a tune sipping tea in the shade of sycamores or thrashing toothless and bloodied before trembling amplifiers.
The last nail in the argument is that old anti -suicidal and -homocidal adage: “A kickass new band each day keeps the shotgun from spattering brains away (in a symphony of red and grey).” In a truly fair world, denying an insistent tune-wielder the chance to shuffle your perceptions would precipitate divinity driven deafness.
posted by Mr. Pibba at 9:21 PM
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