On Music

I've always been especially sensitive to the effects of music. In high school I'd often find myself nearly paralyzed by a song that seemed to resonated with the flabby mass of my brain. I'd lay down on my bed and let the song flow through me. Music can still affect me in the same way, although now it's more likely to be The Delusions, Iron and Wine or Joanna Newsom incapacitating me than Type O Negative (I was never Goth, but I could dig some of their music) or Stone Temple Pilots.

Music has a way of inspiring me even when what I produce from that inspiration has nothing to do with the actual words to the music. If you've ever read something from me that you considered especially worthwhile, it was probably written with Last.fm or my mp3s playing in the background. Actually, I think the recent downturn in the quality of this blog comes largely from the fact that Last.fm was blocked at work leaving me with no music at work unless I want to bring in my mp3 player and risk it getting stolen. Instead, I've been listening to the archives of This American Life, which, while inspiring in topics, don't really inspire the flow.

One troubling trend in my listening habits has been the progressive softening of my favorites. I once reveled in Stone Temple Pilots, dug on Pantera, loved the harder side of Alternative and embraced the music of anger despite having nothing to be angry about. I wasn't even that angry as an adolescent. Honestly, my mood at the time matched that of the emo song the best, but I would have hated that shit as a teenager. Now I groove on The Decemberists, Iron & Wine, and an assortment of psych folk acts. To paraphrase Boy Sets Fire: Where's my anger? Where's my fucking rage? Honestly, I really have more to be angry about now than I did in high school.

Could getting laid actually reduce your need for angry music? It's a theory that someone needs to take a look into.