Oh, Lord, music on this trip is, like, a thing of incredibly delicate balance.
I love music. I mean really love. It’s an incredibly important thing to me and it gives me all kinds of energy and happiness. Luckily I married a woman who shares my passion for music. Sadly, though, she has no taste.
See, my wife’s taste in music is, to me, awful. You know the stuff: cliched dancefloor fillers, slightly robotic autotuned voices singing “may” instead of “me,” etc. Like for real, her “thumbs up” playlist is comprised almost entirely music I’d be happy to never hear again, ever. I mean I’d prefer if it didn’t even exist, so there’d be no chance. I’m not exaggerating much, either…
Whoever’s driving gets control of the music. This is a very fair system which I’d expect all humans would agree to. On her days I try, y’all, I really do. I mean I can see how happy this steaming manufactured trash makes her, so there’s something redeeming there, at least. But I just can’t do it.
No, everyone doesn’t like Rob Base and DJ EX Rock’s It Takes Two. We’re out here, those who, while we can appreciate the quality of her voice in her prime, think Whitney Houston’s catalog is incredibly boring. And I never, ever, want to, “zooma-zoom-zoom and-a boom-boom,” whatever the hell that is.
But, like my music makes me happy so does her’s her. And, just as I feel the world would be a better place if Michael & Janet never made that terrible white spaceship duet, so does she, I’m sure, wish that the Grateful Dead wasn’t committed to releasing every single sound they made over some thirty plus years.
I just close my ears and hope for one of the scant few tracks we both like to shuffle up. Some Ben Folds, Sheryl Crow, Tom Petty, even Dixie Chicks. Something… anything but that God-awful Never Gonna Get It again… that song is from the devil.
So we take turns, all democratic like, driving, which is really only pretense for controlling the playlist, and suffer nobly through the other’s tastes.
That’s love, y’all. Peace.