I'm sure someone has asked you, at some point, to list what attributes you find most attractive in a potential mate.
What stymies me is that almost never does a quiz or questionnaire offer a check-box for musical compatibility, when really, this deserves some careful consideration.
Starting with sense of humor, followed by desire to put me on a pedestal (I mean, let's be honest, here), I'd give love of music the next most prominent spot on the list. I mean, if you're serious about someone you are basically stepping into the longest car ride of your life. Do you really want to fight over the channel?
It used to be easy to eliminate guys who weren't for me; all it took was a 10 minute look at their music collections. Those enterprising teenaged boys who joined Columbia House under the name of every family member, including the dog, for the sake of getting multiple stabs at those 13 records and tapes? Well, they were definite contenders for companionship.
My musical persnickity-ness started young. I remember one kid in particular who sort of invited me to the movies when we were 13. I was heading home from my summer job and saw him half waving as I pedaled by his big front porch. I stopped, he invited me to sit, and we talked about the movies for a minute, nervously planning an afternoon out at the mall. He then flipped over a cassette which had been silent, pressed play on his boom box and ran inside to grab a newspaper. Out came some whirly swirly tune which seemed mildly but irritatingly familiar. Surreptitiously taking a look at the plastic cases he had left stacked on the horizontal porch railing I saw a total of five; all Peter Gabriel era Genesis, which made me squint as though microphone feedback were imminent. More than a few minutes of extended length prog-rock jazzy jamming makes me want to tear my ears off. As the kid bounded back down the steps, enthusiastically spouting off movie times, I faked mononucleosis and saw Stroker Ace with a different dude the following week.
Different dude and I both heartily agreed after seeing the film that it was crap, which added a little tread to the ol' compatibility tire, but, as you can imagine, musical trouble was just around the corner. We were sticking uncomfortably in our nylon Dolphin running shorts to his Mom's Versailles-styled plastic covered ivory brocade couch, listening to the latest Police release, the almost perfect Synchronicity. I'd enjoyed the album at least a dozen times previous to that day and loved it all except for the song "Wrapped Around Your Finger", which then began to play. A self-professed 'huge' Police fan, he looked at me and blankly stated, "I will turn your face to alabaster." Raising an eyebrow, I said, "What?" unsure about this weird lyrical suggestion. Then he sighed and slowly and methodically professed, "best line ever" and...poof, like Sting knocking over a candlestick, the flame, for me, was extinguished. I knew this 'colossal fan' had barely given Andy, Sting and Stewart a listen based on that pronouncement. I mean THAT's the song? And the BEST lyric? Good God, I can think of four songs on Outlandos d'Amour alone that are better than this odd, mythically peppered tune about power dynamics. Oh well, I thought, peeling my thighs off the vinyl coverlet, too bad. He was cute, too.
Another boyfriend had played a lead role in all of the musicals offered at his high school. Not knowing him well because he was from a neighboring town, I simply assumed our constant and repeated listening to Carol Channing's "Hello Dolly" was because Horace Vandergelder needed to learn and memorize all his songs. Then, months after the play, and with Dolly successfully packed away, his family opened their Olympic sized swimming pool complete with perfectly piped surround sound. I was so excited because I couldn't wait to lay my towel down and stretch out under the hot sun, strumming my fingers on the wet concrete to all kinds of anticipated popular music. I pictured some Journey, maybe some Boston, and definitely U2's new album, The Joshua Tree. On the inaugural day of the family pool opening, I sprinted through the sun room and onto the pool deck first, leaving him behind so that he could deejay. He came out to join me, super happy in his striped Alexander Julian swimsuit, and next thing you know, 42nd Street comes playfully tap tap tapping out of the speakers. What is happening? Ok, I love musical theatre as much as, or in actuality, way more than, the average person, but really? Could we listen to something that doesn't involve a full orchestra and shuffling off to Buffalo as I gulp down my Clearly Canadian? After an entire day of him rhythmically tossing his moussed hair back and forth and snapping his oily Coppertone fingers to "We're in the Money" on a never ending loop, I risked getting kicked out of the theatrical poolside retreat by starting to complain about the lack of musical variety and rolling my eyes (although they were behind my darkest Wayfarers). I also inadvertently pissed him off by repeatedly singing the Milford Plaza commercial lyrics over top of the "Lullaby of Broadway". Finally, when I threatened to drown myself if I had to listen to "I Only Have Eyes for You" one more time, he went inside and returned with his brother's 5150 disc, (which, to me, will always be a Van Hagar production) proclaiming that it was THE BEST Van Halen album ever. Ack! Blasphemer! That's pretty much the day I knew we were doomed.
Nowadays, I hope if you're single and mingling, that you get to date someone with a Sirius XM radio subscription, because even though you're probably not going to get your hands on that person's phone to look at his or her iTunes, and almost no one under the age of 30 has a physical music collection, you can at least see, when you enter their vehicle, what stations they have preset. This can tell you quite a lot about a person. For example, if you are a Hair Nation girl and his preset number 1 is Prom Radio, you'll want to have a little chitty chat about this.
My beloved spouse enjoys his music and when time allows, pens lyrics that resemble a Morrissey/Toby Keith hybrid of sorts...picture a brooding, emotionally isolated cowpoke. Anyway, I do love that we were musically compatible right from the start. When he got into my car the first time, he picked up two heavily scratched silvery circles off my console, both soundtracks to popular Quentin Tarantino movies. He squinted at them, shrugged and said, "These look good" . He didn't flinch when I cranked Link Wray as high as I could and when I got into his, he had Alanis Morrissette's Jagged Little Pill playing. A guy who tolerates my music and listens to alt rock songs wailed disparately by a jilted and angst-ridden girl? I predicted endless possibility for empathy there (good call - to this day that suspicion rings true). My cassette collection does not bother him, nor do my bags upon bags (upon bags) of CDs or the 15,000 songs I've downloaded on my iPods or my regular splurge of 10 additional songs per week. My propensity toward every genre no matter how obscure flies just fine with him as long as he gets his Brantley Gilbert and Zac Brown fixes. I always ask him what he wants to hear and about half the time he comes up with a suggestion. The other half, he tells me to play whatever I want, as long as it's not sensational songstress Streisand which we've agreed that I only play when he is out of the house because he can't do Babs. This, my friends, is love.
I have a physical therapist working with my shoulder right now who says she has no favorite song, no favorite band, no favorite album. She admits to not recognizing, ever, who sings what by hearing it on the radio positioned near her table in the medical practice. She says she just knows if she likes the song or not. She does not hum. She does not sing along. I can't help humming and singing along, even when she is yanking the snot out of me.
I wonder how she knows who to go out with and whether she will be compatible with the guys she dates. At first, I leave her feeling a bit of motherly worry, like, she is missing so much! But then I wonder if maybe I could have been a physical therapist if I had room for something in my head besides singers, song lyrics and band names. Eh, just kidding. I'll take the music.
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Thank you for reading this blog.
My readership is actively growing.
I am currently looking for a publisher or a gig writing for The Goldbergs, my favorite show.
Chuck Klosterman are you out there?
Adam F. Goldberg, do you need a contributing writer?
#1970s #1980s #chuckklosterman #42ndstreet #hellodolly #siriusxm #adamfgoldberg #thegoldbergs #mushroomtumbler
