Friday, July 30, 2010

Music is the perfect drug.

Music truly is the best medicine and addiction. Maybe it’s because I am almost completely blind that my sense of hearing is making up for the lack of sight by allowing me to experience listening to music on a whole ‘notha level. I am not sure people really understand what I mean when I tell them that I am addicted to music. My neighbors have a pretty good idea of it; I am sure. As do my coworkers, people driving in the car next to me, etc. See (you lucky bastards with your perfect vision), I have got to have music playing at all times of the day. From the moment I open my eyes in the morning and realize that “oh shit, that’s right, I am blind. But that’s ok; I can still hear the radio playing the Jazz I was listening to while I slept.” (So even my dreams can have good score music), to the moment I get ready for bed and turn on my radio to 88.1 KJAZZ. No, not because Jazz is boring and puts me to sleep, (YOUR FACE is boring and puts me to sleep), but because it is soothing. If I play what I play during daytime, I’d never sleep. Pretty much every activity I do has to be accompanied by music. I don’t think there is a better invention than music and ears, so kudos to whoever came up with those things. *high five*. I have been pretty blind for as long as I can remember, so given the choice, I’d always choose being blind over deaf. (I bet the world is a much nicer place for the blind, anyway. All the grunting and hiyah’ing that goes on in fights sound like a porno when you can’t see what’s going on).

As I sit here listening to my Beatles song collection, I realize a bigger part of the reason for my music addiction is my family. While, yes, I am the one in the family with the best taste in music, all of the Calderons are pretty coo coo for la musique. My mom’s grandfather was a composer. I remember watching him play his acoustic with a thumb pick and the longest nails I had ever seen on a man. (“Cachito de Luna” was one of his famous bolero songs). My dad was in a band in his young days, and when I look at his band photos I wish he had kept those Gibson guitars for when I got older. Mom and Dad both played the best music all the time. It was impossible to clean the house with mom without having the radio playing loudly, moping the floors to the rhythm as if the mop was a dance partner. My brother and I would sometimes try to trick her by turning the volume down slowly making her think the song was over so we can turn on the cartoons, but she never bought it. And quite honestly, I am glad she didn’t. I learned more about life, and love, and loss from her Maricela, and Rocio Durcal, and Juan Gabriel, (etc.) cds than what I would’ve learned by watching Tom and Jerry. Dad loved his rock and roll. It is because of him that I got and am listening to all things Beatles. He schooled us on Jimi, and Janis, and the Stones (will they ever stop rolling?), and Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd, etc. as well as bands like Los Apson, Los Dandis, and many other bands that are also part of my music collection. I’m sure he is jamming out with Lennon somewhere right now. Haha. Though it would embarrass me sometimes when he’d get up on stage at a wedding or Quinceañera or birthday party to sing, but I bet he’d laugh to see me now making a fool of myself when I Rock Band with mes amies.

It was no surprise of course that my siblings and I were born with such love for music. My sister are probably the most lost when it comes to their taste in music. Let’s just say I learned from them what bad music sounds like. Haha. I kid. Well, sort of. My sister Betsy, I remember, used to like good bands like Caifanes and Café Tacuba, before she started liking what I refer to as “wedding music” (which is music you will only hear at a Mexican wedding). I also remember sharing a room with my sisters when we were young around the time they were in high school and I was in JR high. Every morning after her shower, my sister Marlene would never fail to play “All Night Long” by the Mary Jane Girls. Every morning the little bass line in the beginning of that song was my sister Betsy’s and my wake up call. Never failed. My bro is probably a lot closer to me when it comes to music taste. Except we sometimes argue over who is more open minded musically. I am, of course, because when we jam out we always play stuff he chooses because I already like it anyway, and stuff I like he doesn’t get into. So yeah, I win. Jamming out with my brother is always fun. I dunno why we never considered making a band. He doesn’t remember this, but when we were little we’d make up rap songs in our back yard about candy and toys. This was before we used to pretend rock band with our neighborhood friend using tennis rackets and buckets and pots. Now my nephews and godson are showing signs of music addiction and talents, and that makes me feel warm all over. *giant grin*

I have always, for as long as I can remember, been in love with music. First toy I asked my parents for, the first Christmas we knew Santa wasn’t real, was any toy music instrument, preferably a keyboard. They got me a keyboard accordion. Fail. I was offended that they’d even consider my becoming the next Ramon Ayala. Pfffft! Of course they made up for it by signing me up for violin classes. If you live or drive near me, you know I like my music LOUD. It’s the only way to listen to it to accomplish embedding the melodies and lyrics into my brain, though I fear I am expediting my inevitable loss of hearing by listening to music on full blast in the car and at home every chance I get. (Dr. Oz told me it is bad for me.) It works on embedding them, too, but the method also backfires in such awful ways. After many years of attending all those weddings and quinceañeras when I was younger and hearing the song “Tonta” play so many times very loudly, I have random moments in my life, (ugh, like right now) when the song creeps up and starts playing in my head. Sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night. That bastard! Sometimes I rather hear my entire ringtone song than answer the phone resulting in missed calls. Other times when music isn’t present, I completely tune out of a conversation because there’s a song playing in the membrane. And of course, I can’t keep those songs just in my head so they try to escape though my hands making me play (killer) drum beats on desks, tables, steering wheel, myself. I’m quite the Lars Ulrich. Pffft. But I am better than Meg White for sure. Ha.

In conclusion, I would like to thank the inventor of music, and my family, and my favorite artists for providing me with my drugs and satisfying my addiction. I would also like to apologize to anyone whose calls I’ve not answered, or conversations I’ve not been fully tuned into. But I would like to give a special thanks to MUSIC for being my nurse, doctor, therapist, muse, lover, and drug. I may not be the biggest music addict, but I do love it a lot more than lots of folks I know. I am very sure I would even be more involved in the field if I wasn’t too busy listening to music.

P.S. The moment I go deaf I need to be quickly shot and killed. No time for a hearing aid, or any corrective type surgery. Death is the only way. Also, I must be buried with my iPod, for it holds my deepest secrets (Rats! I shouldn’t’ve shared that part). So hurry up Mike Jobs and develop an iPod that does not need a battery because mine would have to be playing music while buried 6 feet underground with me for all eternity.

P.P.S. (haha I said P.P.) When I say music, it does not include songs by The Black Eyed Peas.

P.P.P.S. F*** Y** Hotel California! Stayed tuned for a blog coming soon in which I will explain how the song Hotel California and I became mortal enemies. (<--No exaggeration).

The End.