Music. As personal a preference as fragrance, color, chili recipes. You like this; I like that. It’s so simple. Except in how the preference is lived. If we could just honor each other’s preferences, how much calmer life would be.
If I have to listen to your music, I become agitated, depressed, paranoid, homicidal. MAKE IT STOP, sobs my brain. No, that’s wrong: it’s my spirit sobbing. Music speaks to our spirits. That’s why you love your music and I love mine. And sometimes the twain cannot meet.
I do not insist that you listen to my music, so why do you insist that I listen to yours? Well, no, dear reader, not you, of course, but the world in general.
I love various kinds of music, none of which includes popular singing, which causes my entire brain to writhe in empathetic agony. To me, most performers sound racked, strangled, not because of pathos in the music but because of the strain in their voices. They sound like my smoke alarms. Yet these contorted voices are enjoyed by others. I don’t understand that but I don’t have to. As long as I don’t have to listen to them, I am magnanimously enthusiastic about the pleasure they afford others.
We react to music. Not just with toe-tapping or head-banging, but with something deep inside. Music reaches into us while something inside us reaches out to it. That is not insignificant.
So what’s your point, Maureen? My point is we should respect each other’s ears because in so doing we respect each other’s spirits.