... or not.
My cleaning frenzy has, as always, led me to listen to my (gasp) tapes. Tapes, I say. Those things we stopped using over 10 years ago? That'll give you an idea of what, er, music I've been dancing to for the past three-four days.
We're talking stuff during whose listen (however ungrammatical that sentence might be...) you can hear the actual tape unsticking itself from itself and unspooling. Oh the fun. Pity sometimes that sound does not entirely cover the music I then thought fit to record. I can't name any of the stand-alone stuff I taped, I'm afraid, because you'll probably all start booing me at the same time, and it'll be so loud I'll hear it from here. It's so bad it's not even good anymore, that's how bad it is.
Most of it I'm still happy to have, however, and everytime I listen to it, I think I should really get the CD's (Hot Chocolate, OMD, that kind of thing. Yes, OMD.). But some of it. Oh my. You wouldn't wish those songs on your teenage child's bully. Also, some of it still makes me cry over the same bloody guy as 15 years ago, as well, so maybe I should really just trash them, but you know what they say, right, once a sentimental fool, always a moron.
Incidentally, it's music that made me realise that I was indeed turning into my parents, the first time I said, listening to some "modern" stuff, "oh man, music was so much better in my days". Scary really, considering what I've just admitted to. It's true though, isn't it, not much better has been done than what was on those first compilation tapes we got as "gosh what are they into now?" type presents. Which is scary too. When I listen to what they call soul or R&B right now, I can't help thinking of Otis Redding and Aretha Frankling, not of Mariah Carey and whoever else is on a loop on MTV these days.
And while we're on the subject of music, albeit tengentially... is it the only way that I'll ever be a rebel? My complex personality (not that I'm flattering myself, here, me is complex) has always been attracted to the most various musical styles, without the slightest inkling as to what their inherent melodic, innovative or otherwise, qualities or flaws might be.
Music grabs me by the insides, and that's pretty much how I judge it. If you see me fighting the urge to smile the biggest, naffest smile you've ever seen, usually contending with a maniacal laughter, you can tell I'm enjoying the music. And I do cry every now and again, but it means the same thing. Told you me was complex. Hence, "enjoying the music" simultaneously means Dean Martin, Nappy Roots, Eminem, Rimsky-Korsakov or Edith Piaf. And I remember... when I used to go to work... I was usually not wearing combats and a tee. Even though I'd have loved to. Nothing trendy, nothing saying "power to the executives", but, you know, your classical unnoticeable girl on her way to work. Except I'd be going crazy inside as Nappy Roots' Sholiz came on in my headphones.
How I love schizophrenia.