Monday, December 29, 2003


It would come as a surprise to anyone who knows me, but I don't like music very much. Very rarely do I hear a song and like it immediately. Rare exceptions have been La Bamba (movie version), Sleepy Jean (the Monkees), American Pie (Don Maclean), Sex and Candy (Marcy Playground), Dream On, Cryin', Pink, and Amazing (Aerosmith), Fancy (Reba McEntire {she had me at "the outskirts of New Orleans"}) and embarrassingly, I Touch Myself (the DiVynals) and Staycy's Mom (Fountains of Wayne {erg!!!!}). There are a few more, but it is hard to come up with them on short notice. With a minimum of analysis, one could easily come to the conclusion that I am more of a fan of melody and less of a fan of lyrics. "I Touch Myself" should draw you to that conclusion pretty quickly. The melody is what actually means something to me. Words mean little to me, even in poetry (again there are exceptions). However, some whiny pop star's pseudo-philiosophical non-poetry set to music is not my idea of a winning combo. However, if the music is good, or at least has a nice harmony, I can blissfully ignore the lyrics.

All my dislike of lyrics, however, does not mean that I spend hours in elevators.

Perhaps I don't have time to listen/study music as much as I would like, but I am reasonably sure that the gutter sludge I'm forced to hear between listening to news and traffic reports is not the best humanity has to offer.

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