Thursday, 4 August 2011

Unchained Melody

This hound-dog is Elvis. Making Elvis, I discovered something about myself; the only Elvis (Presley) music I own is one track on a mix-CD a friend made for me. How's that for profound introspection?
I have to admit, I have atrocious taste in music. Or rather, I don't really have taste in music because I don't really listen to much - I craft to audio books*, and my iPod is mostly full of podcasts**. But what little I do listen to is heinously embarrassing. 
I like musicals (Sondheim, modern Broadway, 90s Disney) so I can sing along, loudly and as out of tune as possible. Inside my head, I always sound beautifully in tune and filled with a good amount of whatever appropriate over-emotion the song calls for, but I am assured by everyone around me that, whilst I occasionally fluke a correct note, it is not too frequent an occurrence. Still, doesn't tend to stop me because  I fucking love to sing. I also like people being angry in witty way (Ani Di Franco, The Smiths) because I can vent my teenage-stylee righteous indignation. Anything with good lyrics gets my vote, I'm all about the narrative, and if you could persuade those people in the background to play their instruments somewhere else I'd appreciate it.
I have a few stock 'non-shit' bands I used to name when asked (no one ever believes you if you say have eclectic taste, they keep asking until you pin yourself down to one genre - kinda like when you were 9 and were only allowed one best friend) - some of whom (Alter Bridge) I genuinely like, and some of whom (The Stranglers) I just know are generally considered 'good' - cool enough to be ok, not cool enough that people want to go any further into discussing. Though, to be honest, these days I'm most likely to say Tim Minchin and use that as a segway into talking about comedy...

So, did you hear the one about the drummer, the mexican and the girl who should have been asleep an hour ago?

*Anything read by Flo Gibson is a winner; Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter can be curled up into like a duvet; and Bob Inglis can be relied upon to do all the voices, sing all the songs, and not mispronounce the Sindarin too badly.

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