Guilty Music

Do you have music that you listen to when you're not mentally ready to absorb something epic? Sometimes (as in the past few days) I've been listening to music that is comfortable and familiar. Artists like Feist, and Norah Jones, and Coldplay, and Adele, and Amy Whinehouse, and KT Tunstall, and Brandi Carlile, and Billie Holiday, and Corinne Bailey Rae, and Duffy have been employed to achieve an effect not dissimilar to that of warm chocolate chip cookies: consumed with shameless over-consumption. Oh guilty. They take me back to a time when I . . . when I wasn't here. I find myself missing such days more than I'm willing to admit. So the confession which I will make will be in mere vicarious relation to the music that I listened to at such times.

Times when I was first realizing how feminist my music taste is, when I was in the bath tub, when I went to a great big concert and made people jealous, when I wanted to sing out loud, when I wanted a bouffant and thick eyeliner, when I was at Nordie's buying sunglasses and wanted her CD, when Rachel and I drove to Pasadena, when Miss Dawn tried to teach us music, when I could sing little else, and last summer when I found time to explore new music all day, and do little else.