I have a confession to make.
I have a confession to make.
It's time to come clean.
Now is as good a time as any.
If you’re reading this, then you already know I like music. Nay, I love it.
Like so many of us, music isn’t simply something playing in the background; it’s a part of our lifeforce. It’s as essential to us as water. Or oxygen. I do very little when I don’t have music playing. If I’m cooking, definitely. If I’m exercising, almost certainly. If I’m walking the dog, it depends on my mood… it could be a podcast (about music) or straight-on music.
That being said, there are a few times when I prefer silence or something unfamiliar.
If I’m editing the Abandoned Albums podcast, I prefer silence, but I have been known to edit with the television on. In those cases, it’s a foreign television show. For some reason, ignoring another language is easier than it should be. Except for German shows - the harshness of the dialect draws me in…. I guess that explains why I like Rammstein.
If I’m writing, I need silence. In those cases, like now, I must have silence. I know some folks prefer to write with music. Even when I write about music, I prefer silence. It’s worth noting that I can edit my writing with some background noise, much like editing the podcast.
One particular activity doesn’t require silence, only unfamiliar music.
I’m a private person, so this isn’t something I would admit in open company, but writing it out seems less revelatory. For me, there is something more intimate and trustworthy about confessing this way. I feel like I can trust you all. Besides, writing it out means I won’t have to hear your sighs or witness your awkward or judgmental expressions or body language.
It was the great Greg Dulli of Afghan Whigs who said it best in “This Is My Confession” off of 1992’s Congregation*:
This is my confession angel
Let's not make too much about it
Don't say a word
Don't do a thing…
I know my way around the truth
My need for guilt demands fresh fuel…
This is my confession.
Friends, I wouldn’t say I like to listen to music… well, when being, er, intimate.
As a young lad, it never seemed to bother me much. I could fluck to my heart’s content regardless of what was on*. In fact, and perhaps you can relate, I would make mixes for the sole purpose of flucking.
Like a lot of things, something changed as I became a man of a certain age. My mind would wander to the artist if the music were familiar during these intimate moments. I would sailor dive down a rabbit hole and begin meticulously cataloging what I knew about the artist… or wanted to know.
Suffice it to say that Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours is kryptonite for me.
This is not to say music isn’t an aphrodisiac; it certainly is. If you put on Elton John’s Madman Across the Water*, I will get a little randy… let’s make sure it’s not playing by the time the clothes are off.
In the best of situations, I can keep my thoughts to myself. In the not-so-best of situations, my mast would collapse, and I would turn into a naked jukebox of information only a few would care about. More often than I care to admit, and depending on where we were, I would either excuse myself to change the music or pause to request a music change before it became a time-delayed or irreversible embarrassment.
“Can we put something else on?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Well, I can’t concentrate.”
“Why?”
“Uh, it’s the music.”
“I thought you liked (insert artist)*?”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s just that (useless facts and/or knowledge about the artist spews out).”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, sadly.” As we lay awkwardly looking at the ceiling for a few moments. “So, uh, whadda you think… maybe something instrumental?”
In the not-so-best situations, it’s a look of amazement (or annoyance, I can never tell), in the company of an empath (or tribe member), a smile and acceptance.
To the best of my knowledge, there is no Viagra or Viagra-adjacent medicine for this affliction.
*- is it just me, or do we need to talk more about Afghan Whigs?
*- except The Smiths - “How Soon Is Now” makes my privates behave like a scared turtle.
*- I’m not sure why it’s that album… but it is. My guess is the album’s opener, “Tiny Dancer.”
*- The Red Hot Chilli Peppers run the risk of me going into anaphylactic shock.
We absolutely need to be talking about the Afghan Whigs more. Like, a lot more.
Thanks for sharing. I need silence quite a lot because I am the person at the restaurant with friends singing along to the background music or asking who the artist is. I can definitely relate!