Over the years, Dearly Beloved, you have no doubt heard me complain about the country music Ramona plays at the shop. It took a while but, after a year or two, it began to grow on me. I got to where I could recognize different voices and even put names to them. I developed a sort of appreciation of the wry humour prevalent in the genre. Humming some tunes...singing along with others and still cringing over a few--I got by. I mean, it's not KUT.org, but I could live with it six and a half hours a day. I would even think about some songs at other times...I've written a few entries about country songs. In short, I have worked out an uneasy alliance with country music.
Well, Dearly Beloved, I got back from Spring Break to find (shudder) pop music playing on the radio. O, I am undone! Where do they get this stuff? It's like a bastard mix of techno and hip hop with a soupçon of disco thrown in. It is, in short, a headache that spreads from the top of my head, yea verily unto the fillings of my teeth. I have contemplated digging into the Urban Dictionary to find out what some of the lyrics mean (just what is a "disco stick" and do I really want to know). The lyrics (those I can understand, anyway) range from banal to bleeped. The play half a dozen songs in rotation all day long. I have heard the same song six times in a single day. No, really. I'm not imagining it.
I have to wonder whatever happened to rock and roll. You know...the stuff my mother used to complain about and make me change the station away from whenever she came in the house, back when I was in school. The stuff she said gave her a headache and set her teeth on edge. "Maybelline," "California Dreaming," "She Loves You..." It was all the same to her--horrible. Somehow, I can relate.
Ramona says she needs a change every now and then (this is the first time in the six years I've been there). She says it helps her creativity. One must not interfere with creativity. Of course one must not.