In Which I Channel My Father

"You call that music?"

"Turn it down!"

My dad was a pretty good guy, but he didn't much like rock music, and he wasn't shy about saying so.

Someone in the apartments is playing some music, and the bass comes through loud and clear: thup.. thup thup.. thup thup.. thup thup.... thup.. thup thup.. thup thup.. thup thup...

I can't hear anything else, just bass. Grrr.

It struck me a long time ago that playing music loud enough to share with the neighbors is a lot about power. It's forcing people to listen to you when maybe they wouldn't normally. And forcing people to deal with you on your terms.


When I lived in the dorms at college, the guys in the room next door played two songs a lot. One I don't remember the tune to, but the basic story had to do with a man getting in the backseat of a car with a woman, and taking off his tie really slowly, and then putting it around her neck very fast. And putting her in the trunk. But it's okay, the song went, because, "she is dead, she is dead, she is dead."

I found that disturbing. It's hard to go bang on the door of the drunk guys next door when they're playing a song about killing a woman, you know?

Their other favorite was something along the lines of "Your love is like a nuclear waste; They've stamped contaminated across your face; Your love is like a nuclear waste."

They were real winners. I'm so glad I don't live in dorms any more!

(Ooo, the music just stopped! Sanity for the win!)