The Return of Music

I don’t like quiet. Silence gives me the willies.

I always had my headphones on, or the stereo blasting, or I’d sing (admittedly this was more to annoy the mister than anything else). I played the guitar and oboe for years, though that has faded and now I mostly play the stereo.

I would dance in the kitchen while cooking, my hips keeping rhythm with Sergio Mendez. I would jog with Spiderbait and Rammstein and A Perfect Circle pounding in my ears. I'd lounge in the bathtub with Nina Simone in the background or I’d sucker the mister into slow-dancing in the living room to Harlem Nocturne.

The mister would often come in from the garage and remind me to turn down the stereo, as he could hear it over his power tools, and it was probably driving the neighbors crazy. He’d chuckle when we were neck deep in a home-improvement nightmare and he’d turn off his sander only to hear me screeching along, off key, to whatever was playing on my ipod at the moment.

My life was accompanied by music.

But for a while there, right before being laid-off, when I spent more time weeping than working, and during unemployment, it was quiet. I didn’t feel like dancing. I didn’t want to sing. I didn’t want music to keep me company.

I wallowed in silence.

A few weeks ago I was expecting a couple of darling friends to come over for dinner and I was in the kitchen getting the meatloaf in the oven and making garlic potatoes au gratin. Something’s strange, I thought to myself. It’s so quiet.

I plugged my ipod into the stereo and Ain’t Nothing Wrong With That sounded through the speakers. I twirled my way back into the kitchen accompanied by the pounding beats and set back to work.

Startled by the noise, the mister came in from taking out the trash and just stood there, grinning at me.

I guess he missed the music too.

Apocalyptica

I listen to music at work. Silence freaks me out and my workplace is QUIET. We all stay in our little offices and, other than the hum of the copier or ringing phones, it is eerily quiet. After years of brothers, roommates, dorms, and living with the mister, I find that sort of silence unnerving.

So I have one of those radios where you can plug your ipod into it or listen to standard AM/FM radio stations. I listen to my ipod for most of the day, since I find radio shows somewhat irksome (what with all the talking and the stupid jokes and the call-in games that showcase humanity’s deterioration). I do occasionally switch on Cities 97 or KQ92 or, if I’m having a day, I’ll put on 93X, but only after their morning show is over because I HATE their morning show.

My ipod contains an odd mix of music. Lots of floaty acoustic songs, oldies, swing music, some classical music, a fair amount of hard stuff, and some truly obnoxious pop music that I love. Some of the songs have explicit lyrics, and since the music is just on in the background and I’m not actually focused on the lyrics, I don’t always notice.

I figured I’d get busted for listening to inappropriate music eventually, even though I keep it pretty quiet. Sure enough, the Damien Rice song Rootless Tree was echoing around my office when my boss came in, and, oops, that song goes fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and all you do about 90 times. Totally not office appropriate (though sometimes the sentiment is very accurate).

So today I’m taking it easy. I found an old Apocalyptica CD in the pit of garbage that is my basement and loaded it onto my ipod. Apocalyptica, FYI, is a string quartet that made it big making instrumental versions of Metallica songs. It’s just the tiniest bit subversive. I like that.

Love this song

Set Free, Katie Gray