around//around//around
the music has stopped
and i don’t know where to sit,
in fact,
i’m not certain i am allowed to,
and there’s no one to ask,
but if it were up to me,
then i guess i’d prefer to stand
either way
Fred Aiken Writing
Tag: music
July 11, 2024
July 6, 2024
music in the trunk of a car
I think that would depend largely on my mood. I enjoy a wide range of music, from classical to hair metal, nu-metal, hip-hop, R&B, folk, and pretty much anything in between. I don’t really think I would classify one particular genre as being my favorite over another, but my choice on which to listen to would largely depend on what I’m doing, how I’m feeling at the moment, and whether or not I’ve heard the song and/or genre a bit too much, since over-listening to a particular song within a particular genre can be its own torture.
For instance, when I’m working on a particularly challenging project, I might reach for classical music—something like Bach’s “Goldberg Variations” played by Glenn Gould. The precision and complexity of the music create a sort of mental order amidst the chaos of my tasks. Gould’s fingers dancing over the keys are like an intricate ballet, a cerebral massage that eases my mind into focus.
On the other hand, when I’m driving late at night, nothing beats the raw energy of hair metal. There’s something liberating about blasting Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” with the windows down, feeling the wind whip through my hair. It’s as if the unapologetic excess of the ’80s is propelling me forward, urging me to embrace a sense of carefree rebellion, if only for a few minutes.
Then there are those introspective moments, the ones where I need to retreat into my thoughts and sift through the complexities of life. Folk music becomes my companion here, particularly the melancholic strumming of Nick Drake. His “Pink Moon” album is like an old friend, whispering secrets and sorrows, helping me navigate the labyrinth of my own emotions.
Hip-hop and R&B have their own special places too. When I need to feel grounded, connected to the pulse of the present, I turn to artists like Kendrick Lamar. His album “To Pimp a Butterfly” is a tour de force of lyrical prowess and social commentary, a modern-day odyssey that challenges me to confront uncomfortable truths while getting lost in its rhythmic genius.
And then there’s nu-metal. A genre often maligned, but to me, it’s a guilty pleasure that I don’t feel guilty about at all. Bands like Linkin Park and Korn bring a visceral catharsis that’s unparalleled. The fusion of heavy guitar riffs with hip-hop beats and angst-ridden lyrics speaks to the dissonant, rebellious teenager that still resides somewhere within me. They were the bands and song of my youth, so that emo-sounding, yelling-singing that often comes across as whining brings back a sense of nostalgia from time to time.
The eclectic nature of my musical tastes reflects the varied tapestry of my life. There’s no single genre that could encapsulate all my experiences, moods, and aspirations. Music, in its many forms, provides a soundtrack to my existence, each genre a different shade on the palette of my daily life.
So, I suppose I probably answer exactly one specific genre of music as being my favorite of all. It’s the genre that matches the moment. It’s the one that resonates with the beat of my heart at any given time, the one that understands my unspoken thoughts and amplifies my unexpressed emotions. It’s ever-changing.
June 12, 2024
A Musical Note
Thomas leaned back in his chair, feeling the worn wood beneath his fingers, and closed his eyes. The morning light filtered through the window, casting a warm, golden miasma across the room, as if trying to gild the world in a fleeting moment of perfection.
This was his sanctuary, where the noise of the city and the weight of responsibilities dissolved into the background. He came here not just for the quiet, though it was part of it, but for the rhythm of it all. The tuning of the strings, the waiting for inspiration, the sudden rush when a melody took shape—all of it a dance as old as time itself.
His passion, however, wasn’t just playing music. It was understanding it, feeling it.
Back in his daily life, Thomas was a teacher, his days filled with the clamor of students and the steady rhythm of the mundane. But here, alone with his thoughts, he could hear the music of life, the subtle symphony that played in the background of every breath he took. It was here that he composed, the melodies rising and falling with his thoughts, the harmonies inspired by the whispers of his memories and the silence of the early morning.
He reached for his guitar, its body worn smooth from years of playing, and strummed a chord. The sound mingled with the creak of the old house and the soft rustle of leaves outside, forming an impromptu duet. Thomas closed his eyes again, letting the notes guide him, each one a stepping stone across a river of memories.
His mind wandered back to his childhood, to the small, dimly lit room where he had first picked up a guitar. His father’s instrument, it had been a portal to another world, a place where he could express the emotions that words failed to capture. His fingers had stumbled at first, but the passion was there, igniting a fire that would burn bright through the years.
Music was his language, a way to connect with the world on a deeper level. It was in the lullabies he played for his daughter, each note a promise of love and protection. It was in the songs he wrote for his wife, capturing the essence of their life together in melodies that spoke of joy, sorrow, and everything in between.
As he played, the sun climbed higher, its light sparkling on the polished wood of the floor like a thousand tiny stars. He thought of his students, the way their faces lit up when they finally grasped a new concept, the pride they felt when they played their first song. Teaching was a part of his passion too, a way to pass on the gift of music, to ignite that same fire in another soul.
A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. He set the guitar aside and stood up, feeling the weight of the moment. With practiced ease, he answered, finding a young boy standing there, clutching a sheet of music with eager eyes. Thomas invited him in, guiding him to the chair by the window where the light was best.
They worked through the notes together, the boy’s initial hesitance giving way to confidence as the melody took shape. Thomas watched, a quiet pride swelling within him. This was his passion, not just for music, but for the act of creation itself, for the ability to take the chaos of the world and transform it into something beautiful.
As the lesson ended, the boy packed up his things, his face glowing with a newfound sense of accomplishment. Thomas watched him go, feeling a sense of fulfillment that words could scarcely capture.
Thomas picked up the guitar again, his fingers finding the chords without thought. The song that emerged was one of contentment, of quiet moments and the simple joys of life, notes that filled the air with daydreams. It was a reflection of his passion, not just for music, but for living a life that resonated with meaning, each note a testament to the things he held dear.
And as the day drew to a close, the room bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, Thomas carefully placed his guitar back into its worn case that had been a constant companion to every relationship, every move, every change he had made over the years. He went into the dining room to have dinner with his family.
Fred Aiken Writing 