I opened this page listening to some emo musical piece that made me want to pour my guts out, and then just as I was about to spill the beans, Pandora, bless her heart, began to play a parody of french cafe music. No one in their right mind can wax can confess to murder whilst listening to a parody of anything, so now I've got to start over. Give me a second to think about what else I can write now that my unspeakables are out of the question.
Well, now she's showcasing a cute little female voice singing such an upbeat ballad that I almost want to compose a fairytale right here and now. But wait...now Nick Drake and his lone guitar fill my speakers and once again, my mood changes and I want to write, what? He's folksy, simple, honest and raw. I want to write about what I feel about politics and humanity's behavior towards itself and our planet, and how it treats the animals that occupy this world with us.
But lucky for you, she's now playing bossa nova - Joao Gilberto, to be exact, and I so want to write about my beautiful and ethereal experiences while traveling around the world with a dear friend of mine, Silvia, some years ago. Forget politics and horrible human beings. There is beauty and wonder and adventure out there!
And now she changes it up again (damn these three minute pop songs) and Ella graces my ears with notes of longing and love and heartache and hope, which lead me instantly to my love, Jack. I want to write a memoir about what he has given me and taught me and shared with me. I want to shout out to the world that my partner is the best man I have ever met, and that we can all have this magnificent love if we will only believe that we, each and every one of us, deserves love, and trust that if we wait patiently and don't settle, we can find it. We will find it. It took me many years and a marriage I wanted so badly to be right for me to learn this.
Oh, Beyonce. I'm not sure I can even match her talent with my words. But that's one of the most wonderful things about music, don't you think? I would never even think to buy a ticket to see her live or even go out to buy one of her albums, yet when I hear her sing, I feel something ignite inside. I perk up a bit, sit a bit taller, get a little attitude in my walk.
Once again the odd shift that happens with music pulls me from American woman-power to global spiritual-power as Krishna Das enters my room with Indian melodies and god centered chants. If you have yet to bring him into your musical journey, I encourage you to do so now. And if you practice yoga at all and have never done so while listening to Das, you are in for a spectacular treat, for certain.
Uncle Tupalo. A band that has breathed life and truth into my soul since I was in college. The memories that surface with their music are limitless.
And there is always, always room for Rage Against the Machine. He may be American and white, but this boy's heart and soul are connected to the global community. He makes me want to rise up and kick some serious ass. I just need to figure out what ass that is first.
The Beastie Boys, on a slightly less serious scale, have been in their own way, as impactful as Rage to many of us Americans. They may not be all about revolution and justice, but I don't know another group of white boys that inspired their awkward counterparts to break it down as completely as they did. Do.
And just as I am ready to throw in the towel at the god-awful time of 11:24 pm, Pandora brings on Prince. Here I just have to tell it like it is: Prince does not ever, ever, make me want to write. All he makes me want to do is dance (which I just did on our balcony, between me and you).
How does she do it? Pannie just went from Prince to Jewish wedding music (mind you, this is all a shuffle of my many stations, but still. Prince and then Jewish wedding?) So I have to keep dancing, naturally, but instead of booty shaking, I'm now high-stepping in circles while snapping my fingers above my head and rotating my wrists back and forth faster than is natural. It's a highly complicated combination for a goy that secretly wishes with all her heart that she was a shiksa, which my Hawaiian partner would say takes serious chutzpah on my part.
Well, alas, I must admit that I think I've been outdone. James Brown is now grunting out of my speakers. As no one I know will argue that he leaves little room for interpretation, and I'm not nearly gutsy enough to tell you what his music makes me want to do, I am done.
It's no wonder I wish I was a Jewish African-Mexican American.
God bless the musicians of the world.
God bless Pandora.
And God bless Christmas music, which is playing right now, even though it is only October the seventh.
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