Tired of the music in iTunes, we try to find something new.
NPR broadcasts bad news and hardly much music, but American Routes. Since having a child, I've given up listening to the show regularly. The din of 3 live humans (my family) added to 2 piped in ones (interviewee and Nick Spitzer), plus clips of music (the interviewee's) and slice of life recording bits (interviewee clopping down the steps to his basement recording studio in New Orleans, interviewee laughing at his favorite diner, interviewee greeting his neighbor) becomes nerve-bending.
Pandora radio - just like Pandora's box who knows what evil will emerge. We tried "The Gossip" Radio, which devolved after just a half an hour into music the sounded like farts in pleather pants. The Pandora write up for one band reminds me of the term "electroclash". Never in my life would I think of the term "electroclash" unbidden. The thought of electroclash was tossed into the same fiery pit as my lease for an overpriced Long Island City, Queens apartment.
On previous evenings we tried other artists, which also devolved into electroclash pleather fart sessions. Mind you, I'm using electroclash to include all bad music of this era - drippy male vocals over drippy strumming, male falsettos over drippy strumming and keyboards, breathy female vocals over pleather fart keyboards, drum machine music, and other musics made by individuals between 18 and 45 years of age.
Keyboards blinking away, drum machine doinking on, female vocalist in rapture.
"What is this sh*t?" I asked Jared.
As if possessed, he begins to sing along, "Irritate irritating ting ting. Irritating IRRITATING IRRITATING IRRITATING. ting ting. IRRITATING IRRITATING IRRITATING. ting ting."
"I think it's Peaches," he says.
And, with that my son needs my attention more than electroclash does.