I’ve downloaded my self-proclaimed “eclectic” CD collection into my computer’s media player; I now have a mystery DJ in the room who tirelessly spins everything from Paul Simon to Phish in a continuous and shuffle mode.
Usually this is a good thing.
Right now though, Phil Collins is treating me to a live version of Sussudio, and I have to wonder what kind of crack I was smoking when I added this shit to my playlist. I’m tempted to skip to the next song, but I tell myself I’m going to see Phil’s inflated version of the boring ’80s tune to its painfully overdue conclusion. Poor me; I can’t take it anymore, and fast forward almost to the end. There may be more crack-induced bullshit to come, but I’ll take my chances.
Don’t get me wrong: I love most ’80s music and find it appealingly nostalgic. After all, the ’80s took me from a girl to a woman, ten to twenty years old, becoming a soundtrack recorder for the growing Generation X.
Boy George really did it for me, I’ll admit, and Ah-ha’s Take on me was the coolest video anyone has ever seen. But I never really liked Phil Collins (I was more of a Peter Gabriel girl), so I look forward to the next song with increasing impatience. I’ll delete it later, I think, wondering how I came to own Sussudio in the first place.
Then I hear the opening violins of Brooklyn Funk Essentials’ Selling Out, and it feels like I’m coming in from the cold. Luscious, warm funk meets frenetic sitar, slides into trip-hop and dances to reggae… all in rhythm and simply oozing with awesomeness. I heard these things at a friend’s house and immediately asked for the name of the album, wrote it on my hand so I could go home and buy it online right away. I never tire of the innovative sound of Brooklyn Funk Essentials, which sounds even better if you listen to it at, say, 4:20.
As if reading my mind, the computer then decides to send something by Bob Marley this way, specifically Stir It Up. Now that’s what I call easy listening. Easy as a soft chair and a smile. I’m always up for a Bob Marley tune…probably not fifteen Marley tunes in a row, but that’s why I use shuffle.
It’s fun to take note of the weird mix of songs that would never, ever be played one after the other on any real radio station, anywhere, at any time. Alone In My House, The Beastie Boys’ No Sleep Till Brooklyn makes a peculiar transition to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here.
Admittedly, I read too much into the media player’s “random” song order. Once, I wrote the song titles on a piece of paper as they played, then tried to divine some kind of fortune from the resulting message, no doubt sent by aliens or God. Since Talking Heads’ She And She She Was played right before Eminem’s Without Me, I figured my recently deceased friend Gina would stop by to say hi. When David Byrne’s The Accident preceded Sublime’s Wrong Way, I knew better than to get behind the wheel of a car… at least until I heard Roger Miller’s soothing King of the Road or Cake’s thrilling Race Car Ya-Yas . You can’t be too careful in interpreting the non-existent meaning of random song playback.
I guess I’d better stop identifying all my songs before it becomes apparent that my musical tastes, while diverse, are fast approaching “geezer” status. My 18-year-old cousin has categorized most of my CDs as “funky rock” – a term I can certainly deduce the meaning for, but I’ve never heard it before and I’m definitely hesitant to accept it.
I’d rather pretend it’s 1991, and the cousin in question is only 6, wide-eyed from my college age, too cool, in my flannel-clad rebellion. Let me tell you, my son, those were the days. Now excuse me while the pixies yell Debaser and I revive them once more.