Zemblan Grammar

When, earlier tonight, I leveled the following insult at a very good friend, it was partially in jest–mostly a knee-jerk jocular impulse.

“All your taste is in your mouth,” I said. It’s something I’ve freely wielded at others over the years: people who were (at the moment, at least) lacking in taste both auditory and, well, soulful.

How can you not feel Stevie Wonder, I have wondered, aghast and confused. Driving a passel of girls to the bar one night, I was called upon to “play something funky.”  To this day, I remain convinced the girl in question just didn’t know what “funky” meant.    Upon choosing “Higher Ground,” I was met, incredibly, with “Oh! I didn’t know there was a jazz version of that Red Hot Chili Peppers song!”

I remember being as appalled then as I had been in college when I read in the University paper that U2 had covered “that Hendrix song,” in reference to “All Along the Watchtower.”

It’s not just that I expect (or take as given) that people have some knowledge of classic stuff such as your Stevies and Bobs of the world–and it certainly goes deeper than feeling superior to Top-40 radio-listeners.  I don’t demand that people be impeccably versed in music history or underground catalogues, either.  Hey, what I know about Opera could fit in a thimble.  As far as underground anything goes, I’ve miles of ground to cover (some puns intended, some not).

Certain things, though, I can’t help being irked by. Girls whose entire CD collections are predicated on their boyfriends’ mixes, for one.  I’ve been there, too, but I have also had to fight guys tooth and nail just for some stereo time at home.  In that situation, a person starts to appreciate that one Blake Babies tune maybe more than it deserves.

It’s an interesting subject, though.  I’ve been wooed by my share of mixed tapes (seriously, just look in the trunk of my car).  I have fallen in love across a crowded room, provided the soundtrack was right.  I have been stunned to silence, stirred to dancing in the living room with my parents, lured into one night stands (damn you “Still Crazy After All These Years!”), slapped in the face with regret, lulled to sleep, shaken.

The height of my hip, indie years has passed (some time in the mid nineties).  I don’t know from Franz Ferdinand, and alls I can tell you about Modest Mouse is I went to a show and it was the worst show I have ever seen (and that includes waiting in the parking lot for Kansas to finish before Yes went on). I am okay with this.

What I know now is that when a good enough song comes on, I can tell it is time to shut off the lights and lie in the middle of an empty room with the stereo so loud it rattles your spine, and listen to it over and over and over, and blindly throw a shoe at the wall, if necessary.

(Jeremy’s post made me start thinking about this, and the song below both made me level the above insult at my friend (who was entirely a good sport about it) as well as throw a shoe at my poor, innocent wall.)