I think most people have pretty eclectic taste in music. I rarely come across somebody these days who only align themselves with one or two genres. That’s a good thing. It’s funny because we tend to lump other people into categories like “hip hop fan” or “country fan,” which might not be fair after all.
To my ear, Ween and John Coltrane are both fantastic. I think there’s room for Sonic Youth as well as Eddie Van Halen in the rock guitar pantheon. An aside, if Sonic Youth didn’t have the noise-rock/art school image they could have been one of the biggest psychedelic bands. I recall friend of mine once pointed out a similar thing about the German group Can.
But having a broad taste comes at a price. When my iWhatever shuffle went from Jay-Z to Yes I must have passed out from the shock. Because when I woke up, there was 11:37 left on the Yes song, so I calculate that there was over eight minutes of unaccounted for time. I don’t think I was abducted by aliens, but you never really know.
“Winning…” he said in a hushed sing-song voice as he stubbed out the roach and knocked back the watery dregs of a rye on the rocks. No need for the hushed tones, after all he was home alone on this wintery Tuesday at 1:26PM. His wife, along with most responsible adults, was at work. A hot, protracted, shower was next up on the docket – alongside binge-watching a cable TV show on Netflix, a romp involving himself and an adult website, and several actual important items which would get bumped yet again to tomorrow’s schedule.
His daily foray into the fleshy underbelly of the world wide web yielded an amusing thought: “That site described them as mature women, but the things they’re doing…I don’t think so!” But there was nobody around to share this quip with. It would be lost on the cat. And maybe a retraction is in order: porn is hardly the “underbelly” of the web. It’s one of the main limbs, a fully-articulated prime mover.
As his buzz was cresting (always a bittersweet thing since it’s all downhill from there), he tuned in and began nodding to the droning toms-and-tambourine beat of “Venus in Furs” and cranked the volume on his tiny kitchen stereo. Waves of psychedelic guitar and woozy strings washed over him, as Lou Reed croaked about tasting whips and bleeding and mistresses.
Through the window, in the woods beyond the perimeter of his yard, he became vaguely aware of dark shapes moving about. Vultures? Perhaps not. Large wild turkeys, cloaked in deep brown-black plumage in stark contrast to the fresh white powder smothering the land, were present. Several skulked about and would disappear behind the bare trees now and again, possibly to resurface later, feverishly, in his anxious, fearful dreams.