Musical tastes are such a sacred thing, aren't they? Case in point, me and my muchacho. For the record, we both consider ourselves eclectic connoisseurs of the tunes, but sometimes the stars don't align so perfectly. After seeing many references to Coldplay's new album I felt compelled to see what all the fuss was about. I had read that frontman Chris Martin was rumored to be lyrically obsessed with death, which didn't sound too appealing. I bought it anyway. I love music, but I don't seek it out on a daily basis like David does. He has to have a constant soundtrack to life.
David's daily soundtrack sample:
Washing dishes: Pink Floyd
Watering plants outside: Richard Buckner
Watching an Angels game on mute: Some crazy metal band
Washing the Honda: Flogging Molly
As Coldplay's string-filled melodies cascade in my head, David is jabbering on about wanting to pick up the new Judas Priest CD. I swear, sometimes his musical ramblings sound like water gurgling down the drain. I try to listen, I really do. But Judas Priest? I don't care that this is their first studio album in eight years, or that the singer dude's gay and has an uber IQ. My mind-wandering during his Rock Jeopardy spiel is perhaps payback for the label he so eloquently gave some of my favorite bands: Sad Bastard Music.
But in the end on home-cooked meal nights with our little family, it's always Patsy Cline.