[lit-ideas] Re: a must not hear
- From: Teemu Pyyluoma <teme17@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Wed, 19 Oct 2005 00:44:44 -0700 (PDT)
Touched, I am reminded of my tragic teenager years.
You see the thing is that really deep, deep down I
honestly don't give a damn about music. I have my
favourite songs, sufficently intoxicated I might even
sing, I mostly manage not to fall a sleep in
concerts... But I lack the enthusiasm.
I get all worked up about a cool file system, or the
discovery that certain chocolate actually works with a
certain Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon, or silly poems...
but while it delights me to find someone like minded,
I do understand that these are personal preferences
which I don't expect others to share or even have an
opinion on.
Not so with music. Because while liking the poems of
Odgen Nash is a personal preference, listening to
Dylan is an identity. Or to any artist, and I mean any
artist: I remember when my first girl friend turned
the lights down and started playing Milli Vanilli it
didn't occure to me that we were supposed to actually
listen to it.
The same scene followed me through my formative years,
it took me really long time to figure out that
sitting down to listen to records wasn't simply an
excuse for something else. There we were in the height
of our virility, sitting still on the floor, listening
to some dead hippie singing about free love.
That's why I started smoking. I always had an excuse
to go outside and maybe have a conversation about
anything not involving a band, or flee once I made it
out of the door, or just listen to the cars (not the
band!)
If someone has discovered a wonderful recipe for a
chicken casserole, she will cook it for you, have you
taste it, and you will nod, smile and say "tastes
great". And that's it. If she would insist that you
sit still in the dark, silent, and slowly savor the
casserole for hours and hours, except for her
impromptu lectures on the origins of the recipe, the
chicken, the casserole, relative merits of Ugandan
Chili vis a vis Maltese Bay Leaf... well, dinner at my
house next time, OK?
But somehow it is considered perfectly social
behaviour to subject your guests to marathon sessions
of your favorite band. This can not go on. Eric, you
and me, we must start the fight. It will be lonely,
victory is far off, but ultimately we will prevail
because the forces of Boring People to Tears must be
defeated.
As the first offencive I recommend finding the Dylan
friend and inviting him to a long week end of poetry
reading. I especially recommend every overly long
piece you forgot to burn. To any facial expression on
his parts, smiles, yawns, any sight of his teeth
really, you must reply by "you're not concentrating."
Myself, I will find the lady, once of my dreams, now
of my nightmares. I will wine, dine, charm, seduce,
bribe, do anything to win her over and as a climax of
our evening deliver a one million slide presentation
on the complexities of adapting the UNIX command line
syntax to semic languages.
Cheers,
Teemu
who has outsourced his taste in music to his better
half,
happily ever after at
Helsinki, Finland
--- Eric Yost <mr.eric.yost@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
> Though I understand why people are not fans of
> Dylan's music, I
> don't really
> understand.
>
>
> I can't stand more than three seconds of Dylan's
> music. Here's why.
>
> A long time ago, lovesick, heartbroken, nerves
> shattered, I went
> to visit a friend at the sea shore. It was probably
> a bad idea to
> travel when so miserable, but my friend had invited
> me to his
> house and suggested the change would do me good.
>
> It was winter. The house was on the beach. The sound
> of the surf
> constant, as was the opaline sky, the absent sun
> circulating like
> the pressure point of a headache. I kept to myself
> mostly, slept
> late, went for long walks along the beach at night.
>
> On the second day, I tried to talk out my misery
> with my friend.
> I must have been insufferable to listen to. How many
> ways can you
> complain that a woman does not love you? How long
> can anyone
> listen to such complaints?
>
> The next evening there was a winter storm. It was
> then that my
> friend decided I had to listen to Bob Dylan. I
> remember sitting
> at a table for about six hours too depressed to
> move. Over and
> over, the same Bob Dylan tape played.
>
> "Jack of Hearts...carpenter's wives."
>
> The nasal wheeze of Dylan's singing. The smug
> platitudinous
> lyrics. The clanging backup music. Repeating and
> repeating as in
> some personal hell. My friend's hospitality
> convincing me of an
> unbridgeable gap between people.
>
> "Jack of Hearts...carpenter's wives."
>
> The next morning I woke early, thanked my host, and
> drove, drove,
> drove. Hours and hours away from the cold sea and
> Bob Dylan. No
> Bob Dylan. No Bob Dylan. No Bob Dylan ever again.
>
>
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