I love being powerless to art.
I can listen to a song, but I can’t choose how it affects me. Sometimes a song makes me feel the darndest thing. For instance, I was listening to the Fergie song “Big Girls Don’t Cry” on the way to a bowling outing with some very rambunctious RA buddies.
So, so far we have Fergie + rambunctious, dancing-in-their-seat ladyfriends. Not always my best formula for a heart-rendering moment.
But there I was, in the middle back seat of a huge caravan, actually getting into a Fergie song. It’s mostly the chordal structure and back beat. There is definitely a formula for creating the perfect pop song–damned if I know it. But that’s why they hire professional songwriters. They know how to make a song. Who cares if it’s sung by a trashy, no-talent diva–at this moment, I like something in what I hear. I’m powerless.
It’s a strange, yet oddly cathartic feeling. A song comes on, and you have a spiritual awakening. I love it. It’s a moment in time, in space, in God, that makes some dissonance in your life resolve. No matter where you are, it will find you. And that’s sweet, basically.
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