Thursday, August 14

Pandora

So I finally got around to really playing around with Pandora this week. I'm not a big music guy. I like music. (Really. Who doesn't like music? Saying you "like music" is like writing on your online dating profile that you "like kissing." Is there honestly anyone out there who doesn't like kissing? If so, THAT would be important to put on a profile. "I like deep discussions, dogs, and the Mets. Oh, I also hate kissing. Ick.") I just don't pay much attention to music. I hear something I like and I bop along to it. I don't really follow artists and their careers. I have a horrible memory for lyrics. I let a song hit me, wash through me and go out the other side. Or I will play one song over and over for two hours. So up to now Pandora has been a bit difficult. I just couldn't think of something to type into the field.

But Abra of Thank You, Robot discovered what we refer to as the "Phil Collins Hack." And, yes, Phil Collins radio is pretty darn sweet. It as if Mr. Collins is a nexus of awesomeness, a vortex of 80's/early 90's kick ass.

Pandora also has the band Pooka which I have been unable to find for years. They were a two women group from the early 80's. I first heard them as a barista at a coffeehouse/record store in Minneapolis. They came through town and played a set there. I believe there were three people in the audience counting me, the woman at the record counter and my friend Matt who was therw to play gin rummy with me. They were, um, ├╝ber-cute and weird. Matt and I played their album tons in '93-'95 (often as background for roleplaying). Sadly their second album is all electronica and their Pandora station bores me.

But I mainly find myself listening to Liz Phair radio. I honestly don't want to know what that says about me. Actually I have a theory: I listen to music not as if I were the singer but as if it is being sung to me. And I like women with an edge and a sweetness and a sense of humor. And who swear.

Here's a fantasy I'm willing to share with the internets:
A smoky cabaret. I sit at a table over to the side, drinking a beer (even though there are people crowded up to the stage, dancing). The lead singer is tight on the mic stand, cupping the mic with both hands, holding it tight to her face. She's sweaty and has slightly running black eyeliner. Through most of the song her eyes are closed, the emotion of the song channeled through her hands and face. Until the last verse. Then she opens her eyes, locks them with me, and just sings. It's the sort of look you can't break away from for anything. Her band is wailing away, tearing up the night. The crowd a fury of dance and bodies. But across that void of chaos, there is a cord that attaches us to each other, her words shooting down it straight into me.
Yep.

(Yes. We later have sex in the bathroom, but that's not the point.)