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 go out. I can't stand it for long, I try, but find an earthquake builds up in my head after a few minutes. We're all right on most other things from opera through to Indie bands, but still not sure about Japanese noise terrorism . . .
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 eventually, after seven zillion plays - enough!
At the moment I have 'Alt-J' on perpetual play, before that it was Grizzly Bear, Vampire weekend, Radiohead, Andreas 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 section where the piano chords crash in, that guitar solo, or a particular voice reaching a high note. Mark doesn't do that so much; he's off exploring the next sound, experiencing, broadening.
He wouldn't 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.