Music to My Earholes

I was going to write a piece on how music was slowly, if not already, deteriorating as 2011 begins to simmer down to its end. But that topic could go on forever, and I'm not nearly in the mood to sit here and go through that depressing subject. I will write about how music is important, however. Why just this week, I can't stumble out of bed without first hearing Dance Gavin Dance's "Uneasy Hearts Weigh the Most." Normally, screamo rock frightens my poor little earholes, but this song is catchy because of its guitar riffs, and the two guys screaming on the other end are actually carrying a tune. Not bad.
If I sit down in front of my lap top and I know I'm going to be beating myself all day to complete at least (AT LEAST!) three chapters in my novel, I'm going to need at least four hours of music. On repeat. Currently I have a playlist entitled "Writing Music, Fool" on my Windows Media Player, and it's got all kinds of peanut butter deliciousness for my jelly-fied ears.
Mostly, I'm a rock junkie. Ask anyone and they'll tell you: "I'm the whitest black girl you'll ever know." I'm gonna stop using that saying after awhile for reasons I will express in another blog for another time. I only listen to a certain type of rock, however. If I can sing along to it, oh baby, I need it on my headphones. Now. Growing up, my uncle (who just so happens to be white, but listens to every kind of music that there is) slapped a Guns n' Roses disc under my nose, and I've been gone ever since. Before, I had gotten into Blondie per my mother, and would play "Call Me" and "One Way or Another" at all hours of the day, driving everyone in my house mad. I dabbled into a little Metallica, but quickly dumped it when I couldn't sing along to James Hetfield's gutteral pass for singing. Ew, no thanks. I stumbled across the rock stations on the radio and found even more bands that I could bob my head to. Thus, a rock goddess was born.
My favourite band of all time is Queens of the Stone Age. Mostly, all the lead singer, Josh Homme, sings about is rough sex, drugs, depression, partying, sex, and sex, a life I could never lead, but love to listen to either way. At my wedding, instead of playing boring ass "Canon in D" as I paraded down the aisle, I begged my husband to let me walk down the aisle to Queens of the Stone Age's "I Wanna Make It Wit Chu." It's a beautiful slow song with a dash of seventies innocent set for a beautiful ceremony. I can remember my dad slow dancing with me in the living room to this song, and he wasn't even drunk. Ahem. However, it does pay to read and understand the lyrics of a song before you dedicate it to someone. My wedding song? According to Josh Homme, the writer, in an interview with some cool ass people, he said that the song was indeed "about fucking." Whoops.
People will throw music at me that I've never heard before. My brother let me sample an idiot rapper, Gucci Mane, and I turned my nose up at him. "What the fuck is he saying?" My brother, bobbing his head to the thunderous bass coming from his headphones, shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, but it's swag."
Swag? What the fuck is swag?
Doesn't matter, because even though I can't understand hardly a damn thing that's coming out of this man's mouth, the instrumental pouring out of the speakers and the bass buzzing out of the wires is good enough to write a dialouge or two.
Movies make music better. Or music makes movies better. Imagine that one scene from some bad ass action flick where the good guy is walking away from the building as it blows up behind him. Think of how whack that scene would be if it didn't have that awesome song playing in the background. Sometimes I wish my life had theme music. I can think of the song I would use right now: Mario's Theme. Grocery shopping? Getting my truck washed? Mario's Theme. Brushing my teeth? Eating a bowl of cereal? Mario's Theme. It's fucking perfect.
Whenever I get pregnant, and I'm in the room getting ready to push my baby's gigantic melon head through my precious vagina, I will demand music playing in the room. Loudly. I don't want to focus on the pain surging through my body or my vagina being ripped to shreds. Instead, I think I will focus on Lil Wayne's "Lollipop", Rihanna's "Disturbia", The Strokes' "Razorblade"....whoa. Wait. Maybe not that one. That title alone made me double over in pain. I don't want my kid coming into the world with his mom bellowing like a banshee escaping hell. I want the yelling to be droned out with good music, that way he'll grow up and know that music is good and can be used to soothe.
I'll probably use the Mario Theme at my funeral, I'm just saying. Lowering the casket? Children crying? Mario Theme.
So. When I get home and turn on my lap top and the next fifty pages of my novel are waiting to be written, I will search through my huge collection of music and put together the most bad ass of all music playlists. It will include a little bit of rock, a little bit of rap, a smidget of coutry, a dash of dance, a splash of r n' b, and a whole lot of rhythm.