I am a lover of music. Music is my soul, without it I doubt I would exist as anything but an emotionless husk. It's that important to me. My playlist has over 3,000 songs, that's nearly 13 GB of music. Ranging from Linkin Park, to, Panic! At The Disco (which I'm listening to right now), to Metallica, to Frank Sinatra. I'm just that good.
My point is that other people seem to be able to listen to music effortlessly, they just let it wash over them, without analyzing it. I have to really listen to it, and that connects me to the music. I feel the music, and everything about me changes to reflect the music as I listen to it. You can actually see me change when I'm listening to music I love. And music I hate. Hate.
I cannot stress that word, hate, enough. I absolutely hate some music.
Take, for instance some music that my lovely choir instructor picked out of his personal collection. Einstein At The Beach. Einstein At The Fricking Beach. Wonderful, even the title sounds stupid.The music started out really fast, on the same damn notes, and apparently the composer couldn't be bother to put any real lyrics in, so he just had the singers say "1,2,3,4,1,2,3,4" until it got to the climax of the first song, which happened to be the sol fetch syllables. How creative.
It includes the same damn notes over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, slight change, over, and over, and over, and...False alarm, it changed again. It does that whenever it feels like it. Maybe after five minutes, maybe after forever and a half. Seriously, the same dark, grating notes, with slight changes, goes on forever. (Actually it only goes on about four and a half hours. Yes, you read that correctly. Hours.) It would make any sane person feel terrible, maybe even suicidal (as my friend said it made him feel) if they "aren't used to it" as my choir instructor put it. Should we want to get used to this garbage passing as music?
Then, as if this wasn't good enough, the composer put some excellent poetry in, just to mix things up. Poetry that went like this "I was in this prematurely air conditioned supermarket and there were these aisles and aisles of bathing caps, an they had these sorta fourth of July plumes on em, and they were red, and blue, and yellow, and I wasn't tempted to buy them but they did remind me that I had been avoiding the beach." This went on until my brain had seeped out of my bleeding ears and settled onto the floor. I would normally ask if the author was retarded, but apparently that would be insensitive. No, it would be, because the author was a 14 year old boy who had Downs Syndrome. Way to make me feel even more like shit. Thanks man.
For more examples of why I loathe this music, go here http://nicolas.sceaux.free.fr/einstein/text_trial2.html . It took me forever to find even these examples of what was actually being said. I actually looked for this crap so I could prove something like this actually existed. I wasn't sure if people would believe me.
Think about what I've told you about my reactions to music. Think about that for a moment. Music that makes other people feel good, makes me feel awesome. Music that makes other people feel terrible...I still have scratches on my arms five days later. I literally tried clawing my eyes out, then it felt like my skin had bugs. Terrible little bugs, crawling inside of my arms, so I started tearing at my skin. I didn't even feel the pain, even after my friend poked me and told me what I was doing. So then I started tearing at the palms of my hands with my nails instead. Still not feeling the pain of what I was doing. Still not even noticing anything but the music. That damn music. How could I care about my self-inflicted pain when that "music" itself was so much more painful? It'd be like having an elephant sit on you, and then having someone tug lightly at your hair. You aren't going to really care about your hair when your entire body is being smashed in on itself. That is exactly what it was like for me listening to this "minimalistic music" as it is called. Some people actually like this stuff.
At this point, my entire psyche was being consumed by my hatred for this "music". I felt as if my life would never come back together, that I was falling eternally towards a black nothingness, but on the way there all I could feel was hatred, despair, and the occasional hope, only to be smashed by the same notes being played, and played again. This was all I would ever feel. Forever. I wanted to die. I'm not even joking here. If my anyone closely related to me ever wants to kill me and get an absurd amount of money from a life insurance policy took out just days before all they would have to do is lock me in a room and play a few minutes of that when I have a gun. Or some rope and a good place to hang from. I'd even settle for some gasoline and a box of matches (not lighters though, I can't figure out how to work those things). It'd be the perfect murder. How could you prove foul-play?
He asked for us to write down what stories or scenes we came up with. Here are some things I actually wrote about different "songs" as he played them.
"A tower is winding it's way towards Heaven. It'll never make it. It's by an endless ocean. Clouds overhead are darkening. People are catapulting themselves from windows into the churning sea below. Madness ensconces everyone. Rotting food is on a large table in the dilapidated dining hall. Corpses are adorned with old, tattered rags and their flesh is falling off of their bones. Vermin crawl in and out of the food and the bodies. Both taste just as good."
"A woman is walking home at night, but cuts through a forest because she knows it'll be quicker that way. She's already scared, but she thinks nothing of it, she's done this tons of time before. What could happen. Then she hears a high pitched laugh, echoeing eerily through the woods, giving her no real sense of which direction it came from. She's running, panting, praying to her God that he doesn't catch her. He can't catch her, she's almost home; only a little further and she'll be home. Just a little further. Except now she doesn't know where she is, she should have been home by now. She should have gotten home. Had she perhaps been circling the forest? She couldn't stop though, she had to keep running. He'd catch her if she stopped. She kept running, sweat falling painfully into her eyes, mixing with the tears. He was coming for her, she had to get away. A tree's gnarled root brought her crashing to her knees. A slender, gloved hand placed itself around her throat as another brought a knife to her throat. Days later they find her mutilated body propped against a tree, grinning eternally. Carved into the trunk above her was the ironic question "Why so serious?"'
These are just some examples of what I wrote while temporarily insane and under the influence of this "music". I have several more pages of what I saw while listening to this.
I think I shall listen to this music from now on if I get the urge to write depressing stories. It should do the trick. Who knows, maybe I'll be the next Stephen King?
Hope to see you soon! Cheers from my own personal psych ward!
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Now playing:
Suicidal Tendencies - Institutionalized
Suicidal Tendencies - Berserk
Disturbed - Down With The Sickness
via FoxyTunes
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