It is strange, but often the case, that a lover with bad taste should not be a lover long. It seems as though it wouldn't matter. Why would I care what music he listens to in the privacy of headphones? Must we have everything in common?
In high school, I chose friends on the basis of musical taste. Wearing a Siouxie Sioux or Dead Kennedys t-shirt indicated more than concert attendance. In point of fact, it meant we were destined to be friends. On the other hand, any indication of an interest in heavy metal or top of the chart pop would earn a person the gaze of my unwavering contempt.
Now, as an adult according to most traditional standards, I feel obligated to be open-minded. I will not judge someone harshly upon discovering a deep attachment to Bruce Springsteen, for example. After all, I don't HATE Bruce Springsteen. He wrote that Patti Smith song I love. He is a skilled songwriter and has talent. I guess.
And yet, I do not want to watch a six-hour documentary on the making of his second album. Nor do I want to attend the concerts of heavy metal tribute bands. Even if it's supposed to be ironic, the music still sucks. And here is where the problem becomes clear. The less we share, and I hate to say this, but--the less we end up caring.
Whatever. I wrote for 15 minutes.
No comments:
Post a Comment