creamygoodness

The work experience girl at work today asked me what kind of music I was into. I probably scared her somewhat by, rather than tossing off a quick answer like 'Oh, you know, this and that' or 'Punk mainly, but the occasional bit of metal' or 'I like rap! 50 Cent is wel wikkid innit!' I asked if I could have more time to consider the question.

When I was a kid I used to answer the question with 'oh, you know, everything really'. After a couple of years of that I actually thought about the question and it became 'oh, you know, everything really. Except cutesy pop. And country and shit like that. And crap stuff.' Then it became 'rock mostly, loud stuff. With guitars. nd yelling.' And now, well now it's the kind of question I need to take 10 minutes to answer. In fact, I still can't tell you what I like, I can only tell you what I want.

I want passion, I want emotion, I want fire in the belly and bile in the blood with a whip-sharp tongue spraying hate and love and pain and joy all over me through amps that go all the way up to eleven. But then I want the disposable, the throwaway wit and sly, knowing nod, the tip of the hat served up in an obscure, ludicrous video game music/high school band/Britney Spears bootmash remix. I want to slide on my pimp hat and submerge myself in a stream of auditory mojo so thick I just gotta shake my bootay. I want it funky, punky, angry, groovy, trashy, thrasy on a thick, steaming bed of hard riffing, bleepy sampling and silky-smooth, raw-throated vocals. I want to move. I want to be moved. I want to dance round my room at 2am on sunday in one final, joyous middle finger to the mundanitys of the week to come. And I want to do it all at once.



So yeah, a bit of everything really.




Unless it's poo.