I'm cleaning the house, so I can't really sit and chat, but I was inspired to write a quick blog post. I have this issue with music. While some people have music playing in the background at all times, I can't listen to it unless I'm doing something mindless, like cleaning the house...and this is because, as eric puts it, I don't actually listen to music. I listen to lyrics.
This is also why I tend to listen to the same collection of albums over and over...only when a song's lyrics are committed to my memory is it added to my "top rated" list, which is always played at ear-splitting, baxter-fleeing decibels while I clean/workout/chill. Today, my album of choice is Mike Doughty's Golden Delicious. Now, not to sound like an obnoxious music lover, but I've been a Mike Doughty fan since he was the genius behind Soul Coughing. Soft Serve is one of my favorite songs of all time. Long story short, he kicked several addictions and turned into what eric refers to as "the kind of music my mom would listen to." But to this I say, Mike Doughty has become a poet. And this is ok by me. Because, as with Ani Difranco, Fiona Apple and other songwriters whom I deeply respect, he reminds me why I can't imagine being anything other than a writer.
Case in point:
In his I Wrote a Song about Your Car, he asks: Will you be my friend? Or will you be a friend of mine?
Such a loaded question...such a perfect example of how words, in the wrong order, are weighted so very differently, have such a vastly different meaning.
And, as your cookie for reading all the way to the end, here's a video of the man himself playing an acoustic version of this song in what I can only imagine is his living room. enjoy!