Stand By Your Band

The concept of earbuds struck me as fascinating  this morning as I boarded the lighrail to work and my ipod, on random, started playing Seal.  There I was, weaving in an out of ASU's blonde and buff, jamming to "Fly Like an Eagle." I kept a calm demeanor, though I desperately wanted to laugh, and no one had a clue. I noticed several people around me with earbuds in and I became incredibly curious to know what they were listening to, or perhaps, what they were concealing. 

No one can deny the existence of guilty musical pleasures.Yes, we have all done something along the lines of belting out to “I’m Your Lady” by Celine Dion while speeding down Rural road. (I can feel you nodding in agreement.)  However, this takes place in the comfort of our cars, safely separated from the judgment of the rest of the world. If it is a nice day and you have the windows down, it goes without saying that the windows go up at the stop light. The worst is when you are so enraptured in your solo that you neglect to roll up the windows before you stop at the light. What ensues is a Sophie's Choice:  Roll up the windows?  Painfully acknowledging that Barbara Striesand  is wailing away in your car? Or the second option: stare stone faced forward at the light while Barbara sings, “life’s candy, and the sun's a ball a’ butta!”  It's just painful.

Nevertheless, most of us would stand by our musical preferences, even our guilty pleasures; especially with the quick hipster-like succession of whats cool; "Thursday is the new Friday", "Tuesday is the new Thursday;" "empanada is the new cupcake,"  "global warming is the new empanada,"... and so on. However, I wonder how many of us would actually physically stand by our musical loves. I would like to offer a scenario, that may cause us all to stop an pause: the artist that your are listening to on your ipod accompanies you on the lightrail to work.

Sure, Seal  may get some love, maybe a fist bump or two because he is married to Heidi Klum and has crazy awesome Halloween costumes--but would he play well with others? Moreover, would others play well with him? It's been my impression that Jeff Tweedy does not get along with anyone. And I am pretty sure Keith Richard's already weak social skills have plummeted; it is unclear at this point if he even has the facilities to hear. Bono would talk your ear off, leading you to rethink you opinion of tinted glasses and feel quite guilty about third world debt. Ray LaMontagne's painful shyness would compel you to break the awkward silence by talking too much, and then you end up classically oversharing about the pain you felt after the loss of your first house pet. I also imagine that Meatloaf would sit just a bit too close. 

So here we are, on the train. First, some niceties are exchanged. A few compliments are thrown out, such as, "love your work," and, " I preformed a synchronized swim routine to your very first hit song.' This feeling of good will is transient; and of course, as if on cue, the party doesn't start 'til Kei$ha walks in. This is where things get interesting. Kei$ha says to Adam Duritz, who is donning shades and obviously nursing a hang over, "totally loved that 'paved paradise' song. Parking's always a b*%ch!." Joni Mitchell chimes in words of protest, but she climbs too many octaves at too rapid a speed that everyone almost immediately tunes her out. (I have been told, though, that dogs down the block were howling in agreement.) Damien Rice attempts to interject with a few dulcet words of his own in regards to the song, but unfortunately his words go mostly unheard due to people either starting to cry or falling asleep; most notably Adam who at this point has actually taken up residence on the floor. 


"Leave, leave, leave, leave me alloooooooone," he wails.

An unexpected character in the fray is Steve Martin, who repeatedly is forced to explain that yes, he is a musician pursuing a career in Bluegrass. And yes, Bluegrass counts as music. Everyone assumes it is a joke, because after all he is quite a funny man, everyone except for Steve Martin. His interactions quickly devolve into threats, as real as his Grammy nomination. A pluckin' and strummin' mans hands are strong, and no one wished to meet them in the form of a punch. He was unanimously granted the final say on the song, similar to the child who gets to pick the game at the birthday party because he threw a tantrum. Steve recoils to the back of the train where he begins to serenade a handrail with his own version of "Big Yellow Taxi." Joni joins in, offering a performance of the song that even Keith Richards could hear. Keith gets off at the next stop. Actually, we are all a little worried about Keith right now, we saw him get into a strange brown van. 

Believe it or not, Jimmy Buffet is present on the lightrail--though to me it seems unnatural to listen to Jimmy anywhere else but in a backyard while drunk. Jimmy is strolling throughout the train cars wearing a rip off Jack Sparrow outfit, making passes at young women, and ending his comments with bizarre things like, "…and I am still searching for my lost shaker or salt," and several other with equal or less relevance. For example, when the ticket man comes and asks for his, Jimmy replied, "I can't find my ticket, man. It's anywhere you want it to be." The ticket man is not amused, as he has a devastating allergy to tequila, and Jimmy is shown the door.  However, Jimmy refuses to leave until he finds his salt shaker; he won't budge.

Incidentally, Seal has a salt shaker in his personal bag (he wishes that I specify for the record that it is NOT a purse) and begins to feel extremely uncomfortable. He wraps his hands around the purse (woops!) and tacitly stares out the window at the riveting scenery that is Washington Ave. Beads of nervous sweat gather on his forehead. "Jimmy's got a lotta rage," he worries to himself.

By the time that Seal and I approach our stop at  3rd Street things are reaching a boiling point. Chris Brown and Enya are actually playing Cat's Cradle together and sharing a juice box. Bruce Springsteen punched out a window in an effort to escape Meatloaf's advances. Sting and all of the Beastie Boys are engaged in a staredown over what appears to me a dispute over an isle seat. Steve Martin has left his seclusion to perform card tricks, scaring children, and angering a man who he hustled out of his lightrail day pass.

I take the obviously nervous Seal by the hand, and we exit to safety. I am off to work, resigned to bring a book the next day instead. 

It should be noted that amongst all of this raucous, Barbara Striesand, standing in the center isle, eyes fixed and chin slightly lifted as if staring into a spot light, never ceased singing. A class act, Barbara. I'm never rolling up my windows again.