Sunday, 11 November 2012
I live with a musician. We are surrounded by music. Our tastes often overlap except Mark does have a tendency to put on the free-est of free jazz when I am out. I can't stand it for long, I try, but I find a earthquake building in my head after a few minutes. We're alright on most other things from opera through to indie bands, not sure about Japanese noise terrorism though.
I'm very cheap to run as far as music goes, and most other things really . . .) I can happily listen to a new CD until it melts, or even I, eventually after seven zillion plays, get fed up of it. At the moment I have 'Alt-J' on perpetual play, before that it was Grizzly Bear, OK Go, Vampire weekend, Radiohead, Andeas Scholl, and before that, anything by John Grant/the Czars. That voice . . .dark rich chocolate.
I suppose it's the feeling that certain music conjures up, you just want the same hit — that bit where the piano chords crash in, that guitar solo, or a particular voice reaching a wonderful high note. Mark doesn't do that so much; he's off exploring the next sound, experiencing, broadening.
Mark would not have enjoyed my love of 'the cure' in the 80's or rubbish dance music of the 90's although we did share a brief flirtation with 'Leftfield' when we first met, and saw them live in Birmingham. Actually Mark did fall asleep oddly.