Good Music and Bad Music

I am egregiously known for my taste. Or the lack of it! That is because I happen to like many things that most others of my age or vicinity do not. And I do not find myself particularly inclined towards art that is acclaimed and hyped by the media. And we argue endlessly about it. This disparity in tastes thrusts its ugly head in most when the tirade shifts to music, music being the most common ground for all.

I do not completely deny it. There are times when, in spite of my cognitive faculties suggesting otherwise, I subject my tympanum to a lot of hackneyed, sometimes cacophonous, beats and tunes. And I enjoy unreservedly the battering that my ear-drums get. At times, almost half my cognitive responses are tuned to the reactions of other living room TV watching friends to it (We are eight friends in a single flat of the apartment)! This is some kind of perverse sadism that I have allowed myself to cultivate since my childhood. Nothing pleases me more when the other fellow starts gnawing away half his pillow in absolute horror and mortification, and another fellow begins carefully emptying his lemonade in the living room to trip another and cause a din and hence vent out on me his chagrin. That is when I take recourse to the next step of modus operandi; I increase the volume by five units. It is then that people actually begin to go beserk. The pillow eater realises that the pillow has ceased to taste so relishingly sweet; he tears the pillow apart and begins to howl like one with a severe stomach ache. And the lemonade spiller has found that the spilling is not so effective after all; people have become extremely eagle-eyed these days. And there is not a hint of pandemonium. So he begins to get hysterical (That is an anatomic impossibility. But believe me, hysterical is the word!). He showers on the ground all the chips and clutches his chest and begins to expectorate wildly on the ground. And this time he partially succeeds in drawing attention. By this time, the racuous melody has reached its crescendo. The ensuing drama is hilarious. The remaining members pounce on him and start pumping his chest. The poor fellow, who was merely faking up a tantrum is genuinely assaulted now. He bellows out Hiawatha's warcry, scatters the manhandlers, and staggers back to the bedroom, clutching his chest in genuine pain. The surrounding rustics are puzzled, but have managed to figure out that serious danger has been averted thanks to their nimble minds and feet. And by then, the song has ended. The pillow eater is dejected; his lovely pillow is in shreds. The living room is a mess; a living hell! The best reaction was from a fellow who,even as he sensed the impending danger, rushed to the closet and began to bawl out his favourite tunes out loudly, so that you didnt know which was worse! That had been his own time-tested mode of retaliation. At the end of all this bacchanalia, I casually remark, "Why such a fuss about a stupid song! If I had known that the song would entail such a mess, I would have never put it in the first place!" I change the channel and quietly smuggle myself to the bedroom without looking at anyone in the eye.

Though I have this stray streak of sadism, I listen to bad music most of the time not because of the music itself but more because of the thoughts that the music carries along with it; a whiff of reminiscent air. For instance, the song that the TV speakers blared when I had set my sights on this seductive (though a little squat) girl was one of the worst pieces churned out of Bollywood's mills. But romance had lent it a dfferent tune, a different tint. The way the hero ogled at the heroine through the corner of the eye and her coy mock reprisal reminded me of my own Romeo stunts! By Jove! There was romance in my life! And what better way to celebrate it than a little background tune! And every time I heard the tune, it nauseated me with the romance that could have been the most romantic romance in the annals of history, but was never to be. And I became effusively maudlin and allowed the music to percolate into every pore of the body. And queasily whined in gratuitous nostalgia when the music was over. And indulged in some self-gratulatory exhortations for managing to maintain my equanimity and spirits in life despite the tragedies that have befallen me!

I am sure, I am not the only one. When the rustic next door switches on his tape recorder, the dog outside my house begins to howl and tears away to his house, turns it's back on the house entrance, raises its back leg, and urinates very carefully on the walls of the gate. And then throws a barking fit. The fellow enjoys his music oblivious of all the commotion and when the music is over, looks out shudderingly at the mad dog and decides that the only safe dogs are those that are dead!

There are scores of such people who have made the others rush to the closet with their music. To each his own. The next time anybody takes it upon himself to educate me on my bad taste, I am going to take it in the right stride and make an effort to cultivate a fineness in taste. I am going to buy a trumpet and start to play it all day long, till people become convinced that my taste is, after all, not so bad at all!

- posted by Dileepan @ 2:15:00 am

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