Music Therapy

I grew up loving music.  I get it from my mom.  She used to play Michael Jackson when she was pregnant and I’d move around.  She’d say “dance, baby, dance!”  We had this one oldies station we listened to in the morning.  Zip Dude and Maria.  And every year she would call in since they would give birthday shout outs.

Back in the early days of dial up, I would creatively borrow music.  Yup, I was a tiny teen pirate.  I napstered.  I limewired.  Because of that, I have a really good collection of music you can’t find on cd or itunes.  Live stuff from James Marsters.  Katie Holmes singing “On My Own”.

Since having my son, I’ve been so focused on him that I haven’t really listened to anything more than Disney Pandora.  But lately I’ve been grabbing my headphones at night and getting back into my playlists.  And what I’ve noticed is that it really helps.  If a song speaks to me, I put it on repeat.  Even if I put it on low in the background, my brain sort of relaxes and I feel better.

Admittedly, I have a weird taste in music.  I’d rather hear a Glee song than the original for a lot of songs.  Buffy OMWF is a frequently played album. I like Jonathan Coulton’s version of Baby Got Back.  I can listen to DMX screaming “What’s my name?!” in the same 5 minutes as Hanson.  From Bling Bling to Cherry Pie to Mayor of Pussytown without a blink of an eye. I know all the words to Neden Game.  I am completely ignorant on new music.  Until I watched the Grammys this year, I thought Daft Punk was a type of techno music.  I had no clue who Macklemore was.  I just don’t think new artists have the sparkle of the Temptations or Elvis or Michael Jackson.  Don’t get me started on that giant vagina Drake.  Dude, you grew up on Degrassi, not Compton.  I do like Neon Trees and Echo Friendly.  You won’t catch me listening to Taylor Swift.  I’ll listen to Beverly Mitchell’s one and only album while I’m cleaning the kitchen.  And I sing along.  Loudly.  Rolling Down Sonora Avenue!

What’s your jam?

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