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Writer's Block: Love is deaf

Could you spend the rest of your life with someone who had horrific taste in music? How important is it to you to share your love of music with a good friend or romantic partner?


*g* See, this? Not an issue. Whatever a horrific taste in music is, and taking into account that my own probably qualifies as such. Not saying that there aren't a few things out there that might make me roll my eyes a bit, but barring, say, an over-fondness for lyrics and bands I'd find offensive for political reasons, I literally couldn't think of anything that would be a problem if I liked the person. I'm not a big fan of elitism.

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( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
hypolimnion
Jan. 8th, 2010 03:10 am (UTC)
Recommended reading for this question: 'Bye Bye Natalia' by Michael Faber. It's a short story in the 2008 O. Henry collection.

Also? I am typing this out because it brings me joy.
——————

CHARLOTTE. The problem is he's a snob without being an inverted snob. He's ashamed of liking pop music.
HENRY. This is true. The trouble is I don’t like the pop music which it's all right to like. You can have a bit of Pink Floyd shoved in between your symphonies and your Dame Janet Baker — that shows a refreshing breadth of taste or at least a refreshing candour — but I like Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders doing 'Um Um Um Um Um Um'.
MAX. Doing what?
HENRY.That's the title. (He demonstrates it.) 'Um-Um-Um-Um-Um-Um'. I like Neil Sedaka. Do you remember 'Oh, Carol'?
MAX. For God's sake.
HENRY. (cheerfully) Yes, I'm not very up to date. I like Herman's Hermits, and the Hollies, and the Everly Brothers, and the Supremes … I don't mean everything they did. I don't like artists. I like singles.
MAX. This is sheer pretension.
HENRY. (insistently) No. It moves me, the way people are supposed to be moved by real music. I was taken once to Covent Garden to hear a woman called Callas in a sort of foreign music with no dancing which people were donating kidneys to get tickets for. The idea was that I would be cured of my strange disability. As though the place were a kind of Lourdes, for the musically disadvantaged. My illness at the time took the form of believing that the Righteous Brothers' recording of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" on the London label was possibly the most haunting, the most deeply moving noise ever produced by the human spirit, and this female vocalist person was going to set me right.
MAX. No good?
HENRY. Not even close. That woman would have had a job getting into the top thirty if she were hyped.
MAX. You preferred the Brothers.
HENRY. I did. Do you think there's something wrong with me?
MAX. Yes. I'd say you were a moron.
HENRY. What can I do?
MAX. There's nothing you can do.
HENRY. I mean about Desert Island Discs.
ANNIE. You know damned well what you should do.
HENRY. Cancel?
MAX. Actually, I remember it. (He sings, badly.) You've lost that lovin' feeling …
HENRY. That's an idea — aversion therapy.
Max: (Sings.) …That lovin' feeling … You've lost that lovin' feeling…
HENRY. I think it's working.
Max: (Sings.)…it's gorn, gorn, gorn… oh-oh-oh-yeah…
HENRY. (happily) God, it's rubbish! You've cracked it. Now do 'Oh Carol'.

          ( - Tom Stoppard, The Real Thing )
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