One man’s meat could be another man’s Kelly Clarkson
When I hear James Blunt yelping in agony ‘You’re Beautiful’ 33 times in a row like his wrinkly bits are caught in his zipper, I question humanity’s aversion to impaling folks
If music be the food of love, play on.” This is according to Orsino, in Twelfth Night. If you’re prone to splitting hairs, you’ll point out that it was actually Shakespeare who put these words in the Duke of Illyria’s mouth. In any case, few people would dispute this sentiment.
If Shakespeare had been a rapper from Compton, LA, hip-hop heads from California to Minsk to Bonteheuwel would bop their heads to his beats going, “That Billy Shakes be spittin’ some mad rhymes y’all.” I agree that Billy Shakes was spot on about the connection between music and love. Creatures across the spectrum of the animal kingdom employ some mating call or dance to communicate to prospective partners their desire to get all frisky and nasty.
Whether it’s bullfrogs doing a Barry White impression, or whales pulling a “Boer soek ’n vrou” in the Atlantic Ocean, or a cockerel in my mother’s yard strutting around like Mick Jagger after subjecting a hapless hen to the best 3.4 seconds of her life, music is intertwined with the language of love.
That said, about 20 years ago I was lambasted by friends for confessing to breaking it off with an aspiring Mrs N over musical tastes. Listen, I have nothing against gospel music. I rock Joyous Celebration 3, The Winans and Kirk Franklin music at maximum volume in the car. But “till death us do us part” is a long time to wake up to Amadodana Ase Wesile every morning. There’s nothing wrong with the music. I’m sure some of the folks I spot going buck wild in their vehicles in traffic are “in their feels” because of all the dope Amadodana rhymes. Our diverse musical tastes may be the best illustration of the subjective nature of tastes. One man’s meat could be another man’s Kelly Clarkson.
Life in 2024 South Africa is difficult. Unless you have sofas that are registered FSPs stuffed with foreign currency, you’ll feel the economy tanking each time you take a loan to get a tank of petrol. It’s hard to maintain a sunny disposition. That’s why I deliberately steer clear of visuals, thoughts or sounds that elicit melancholy.
Three weeks ago, I walked into East Rand Mall in a chirpy, whistling-for-no-reason mood that annoys anyone suffering from a hangover. But I found myself yelling at the parking pay station by the time I left. That’s when I realised I was feeling irritable. When I heard a girl singing, Because of You I realised that the Kelly Clarkson song was playing from speakers in the mall. With every fibre of my heart, I hate that song. When I became aware that it was playing, my will to live plummeted.
The paradox is, I enjoy songs way more musically calamitous than that one. You’re reading the words of a man who turns up the volume when I hear Right Said Fred’s I’m too Sexy. Kelly’s song just irritates me.
Come now, don’t pretend you don’t have songs that get to you. I have a friend from Emondlo, Vryheid, who finds Michael Jackson irritating; the voice, the face, the dancing, the “hee hee”, the glove... all of it annoys the tattoos off her.
It’s not a secret I’m not a Beyoncé fan, but I can name five of her songs I “love on top”, if you know what I mean? When I hear James Blunt yelping in agony “You’re Beautiful” 33 times in a row like his wrinkly bits are caught in his zipper, I question humanity’s aversion to impaling folks.
I might be banished to Siberia for this next one because it involves three Rock ’n Roll Hall of Famers, but you only live once. I love Bryan Adams, Rod Stewart and especially Sting. But plague be upon the music executive who noticed that all three gentlemen have a vocal similarity; they sound like me passing a particularly stubborn log during my morning ablutions. I can deal with them one at a time, but not all three in All for Love, sounding like they’re passing kidney stones and some miniature pineapples together.
As the 16-year-old’s primary Uber, because I don’t believe it’s healthy for a child to listen to heavy topics on the radio first thing in the morning, I’ve always defaulted to one of Joburg’s hit stations. We haven’t switched back to that station because, two years ago, the (then) 14-year-old got into the car, yawned and said: “I hate this dance monkey song! (by Tones and I)”.
Water came out of my ears, I laughed so hard. He rolled his eyes and said, “The worst thing is that, in the next 15 minutes to school, I bet a hundred bucks they’ll play that ‘bum bum bum’ song too.” I didn’t know which song he meant until I dropped him off as the song was starting: “There it is,” he said, Joel Corry’s Head & Heart.
On the drive home, we started a commute routine choosing Spotify playlists or listening to podcasts. But I couldn’t resist the temptation to show him it could be worse. About a week ago I picked him up and played the only song I’d shamelessly call “the scum of the earth”.
That’s because I once lived in a Pinetown flat, below an auntie from Wentworth, who played Judy Boucher’s Can’t be with you
Tonight five times a weekday and two dozen times on Sundays. I don’t understand why the Marines at Guantánamo Bay bothered with all that waterboarding nonsense when they could have blared Boucher over the PA system 24/7 and defeated Isis.