Strangely Naked

The constant dumb beat I hear from the world is how wonderful music is, how music is like the universe taking your soul, putting your soul in its lap and petting your soul right behind the ears, right where your soul likes it (and if it’s not behind your ear, just substitute “taint”). Couples pick “their song”, people constantly talk about the soundtrack of their lives.

Movies are made about song writers and players, and mountains of articles are written about movie soundtracks. Apparently we wouldn’t even know the name Quentin Tarantino if it weren’t for his gift of choosing just the right song. Some wield their musical knowledge like a cultural cudgel, bludgeoning anyone who dares to attempt to question their knowledge of the newest band, as though esoteric knowledge of bands and sub-sub-sub-genres of music are a true definition of self or can act as a measure of someone’s self-worth.The popular trope is that music is important and knowing music is the only passage to cool that one can cultivate.

I do not own a Katy Perry song, which I say only to underline how amazing her performance must have been to latch on to my subconscious. This is a result of her recent, highly covered and hypnotizing performance (I’d be more specific but, they aren’t a sponsor). It was great. I very much enjoyed it despite it not being my preferred genre(s) of music. Yet, here I am, more than a week past the date and in the back of my head there’s an unavoidable dull hum of “California Gurls” with a derpy shark struggling to wiggle in-tune with even a modicum of rhythm.