"Are You Gonna Be My Girl"

Ideally, this would end up being an essay about how music affects me and then I would go on to demonstrate the depth of my music knowledge and how I find meaning in every lyric every penned. However, it’s not. Trying to prove yourself through music is often an exercise in futility as people are bound to judge you based on your musical preference. Despite this, I put some serious thought into what video I was actually going to post. Since my parents are ancient, my musical tastes tend to run more to oldies, classic rock and other music that proves some modicum of actual talent. That being said, I don’t think Jet is a particularly amazing band and this is really a bad music video, but sometimes you need something to crank up and rock out to while driving around with the windows down . If I want to have an intelligent musical experience, more often than not I’ll be listening to The Beatles. Or Simon and Garfunkel. Or the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Or Cake, Julie London, Charlie Parker, Herbie Hancock. But I’m disinclined to turn this into an extensive list because, when you get right down to it, I don’t really care what other people think of what I listen to. I suppose it’s not about the music video itself, but the incisive Lester Bangs-esque commentary I should feel obliged to provide. Sad to say, this is not the song to evoke heart rending anecdotes and observations. Nonetheless, every time I hear that opening bass riff, my body involuntarily starts moving and my legs send that little tickle to my brain saying that they want to dance. Lack of chord variation and allegations of stolen ideas aside, there’s something powerful in the kind of music that just makes you want to get up and move.

Contemplations on a bird's wing

Essays, written on everything from exquisite mold creations to the delicate arch of a bird's wing can speak to audiences in ways never imagined. Really, it is art itself—in all its forms—that hold the ability to open the minds of people and make an impact. It’s that pit-of-your-stomach feeling when you encounter a piece of art, regardless of form, that speaks to you. Recently, I saw The Phantom of the Opera and had a moment like that. It was what theatre should always be. Superbly balanced and excruciatingly acute in its perfection, I walked out of the theatre overwhelmed with senses awhirl. The poetry of e.e. cummings has this same effect on me. I don’t always understand it, but the first reading has a power to confound beyond the capabilities of conventional comprehension. Upon study, more meanings come through which only adds to the layers of appreciation. Dickinson has the reverse effect. Casually intriguing at first glance, study of her syntax leads me to that light bulb feeling of dawning realization. As an English major, I love literature, but even someone who hasn’t invested four or more years of study to the subject can appreciate it. But who holds the power to completely define “art”—or “appreciation”, for that matter? What relevance does a definition hold if the impact remains? One can be equally awed by innovative architecture and a perfect bass line. I argue that nearly ever task calling on concentration and finesse can be considered art. Why should book binding and cooking not be held on the same plane of sophistication and creativity? There is astounding beauty of form even within objects we consider soporific. In my life I will make more of an intentional effort to welcome value where I might initially see none. Of course, even the cynics of the world are needed to perpetuate our existence. If the cynics disappeared, who would be left to laugh at the schadenfreude of everyday life?