Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
fire.
I am not musically talented whatsoever. Like at all. Zero. Nothing..
I can barely keep a beat, can't come up with my own lyrics or improvise, and my singing is reserved for in my car (when I'm alone..) and my shower (when I'm also alone). I dance, but I don't think that dancing to music makes me musically talented at all. For some reason, at some point I became hopelessly obsessed with music.
Like every other kid, I spent my entire adolescence going through phases. These weren't the typical girly, tomboy, angsty, preppy, nerdy types of phases though. I had music phases. There were points in time when I was into just instrumentals, rap, indie, heavy metal, classic rock, pop, electro, and pretty much everything else under the sun.
It took me until around tenth grade to find a solid, static music genre interest to really stick to. I find this curious because that's the point in my life where I also kind of "found myself". Yes, it sounds stupid, but for me, my music choices have really reflected points in my life through lyrics and artists as well as the instruments themselves (piano, violin, and acoustic guitar are my favorites).
Certain artists and songs will remind me of specific instances in my life. For example, the band Keane reminds me of freshman year because I had a phase where I would only listen to their Under the Iron Sea album. Blue October reminds me of freshman year as well because I had a phase with them too. Music brings me back and helps me relive points in my life, whether they be pleasant or unhappy ones.
There are people that are lyrics people, and their are others that just listen to the back beats to determine whether or not they like an artist or a song. I'm personally more of a lyrics kind of person and that is ultimately what I listen for first in a song.
Ever since sophomore year, I have pretty much stuck to the same kind of music. I currently listen to rock bands such as Three Days Grace, but also really enjoy folk bands like Bon Iver and Fleet Foxes. I know, the two don't really make sense together, but these are the types of music that really get through to me. Last Christmas, I got a record player and am absolutely obsessed with it. I love how the sound quality is sort of scratchy and distorted, it gives songs character and texture. I usually listen to the folk and indie stuff on there, but also have a bunch of old vinyls from bands like Aerosmith and U2.
There are a lot of people who would assume that I just listen to KDWB and that my playlists consist of the Black Eyed Peas and Demi Lovato. I surprise them when they jump in my car and see that I've been listening to 93x or The Current.
Music has helped me sort out a lot of situations in my life and I think it has been a really profound influence in how I have grown up and turned out. I think a person's music choice says a lot about who they are as a person as well as their beliefs. You can tell a lot about someone by flipping through their music once or twice.
Fire by Noah Gundersen (my current obsession.)
Sunday, December 4, 2011
on pity and fear.
Pity. It is clearly etched into those grey-blue eyes along with a hint of something else. Fear, perhaps. I won't ever know. Traveling down from her eyes I find a small, pointed nose, slightly too-thin lips, a canopy of blonde curls, a dainty string of pearls peeking out from under a pale, woven scarf, purple button-down coat and tiny, white mittens gripping the metal bar to a stroller. The baby inside did not fear me. There was no pity in it's eyes, no apprehension in its stare. It did not grow uncomfortable with my lingering gaze, as its mother had. It was the first time in a long time I hadn't been looked at like a walking, living piece of the streets. The first time in a long time I had been looked at like a human. A somewhat wild movement from above the child's head caused me to look up at the woman again. The green paper rectangle waved at me from within her little mittens, begging me to take it and get lost. By now, I know better than to think it was a gift of kindness, but rather a plea for me to not taint her New York stroll any more than I already had. I do not want to think that only small children can truly be compassionate. I do not want to think that incentive and personal-gain is all that motivates adults toward charitable acts. But the streets of New York are discouraging. Compassion is rarely found in the striking green against a white mitten. That is not what I am looking for, but who am I to reject this gift, regardless of her intentions? Taking one last look at the small child who is still unscathed by society, I extend my hand and slide the green bill out of the white mittens and turn away silently.
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