I’ve downloaded my self-proclaimed “eclectic” CD collection into the computer’s media player; now I have a mystery DJ in the room who tirelessly spins everything from Paul Simon to Phish in 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 tell myself I’m going to watch Phil’s bloated 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 80’s music and find it endearingly nostalgic. After all, the ’80s took me from girl to woman, from ten to twenty years old, making me a soundtrack recording 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 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 fiddles of Selling Out by Brooklyn Funk Essentials, 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 tune and just brimming with genius. I heard these things at a friend’s house and immediately asked for the name of the album, I wrote it on my hand so I could go home and buy it online right away. I never get tired 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 odd mix of songs that would never, ever be played back-to-back on any real radio station, anywhere, at any time. Alone in my house, No Sleep Till Brooklyn by The Beastie Boys makes a peculiar transition to Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.
Admittedly, I read too much into the media player’s “shuffle” song order. Once, I wrote song titles on paper while they were playing, then tried to guess some kind of fortune from the resulting message, no doubt sent by aliens or God. Since Talking Heads’ Ella And Ella She Was played right before Eminem’s Without Me, I assumed my recently deceased friend Gina would drop by to say hello. 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 reassuring King of the Road or Cake’s exhilarating Race Car Ya-Yas. . You can’t be too careful in interpreting the nonexistent 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 rapidly approaching “geezer” status. My 18-year-old cousin has categorized most of my CDs as “funny rock” – a term I can certainly deduce the meaning for, but I’ve never heard of it before and I’m definitely hesitant to accept it.
I prefer to pretend it’s 1991, and the cousin in question is only 6 years old, wide-eyed at my college age, too cool, flannel-clad rebellion. Let me tell you, sonny, those were the days. Now excuse me while the Pixies scream Debaser and I revive them one more time.