Pure pleasure. Not quite on a sexual level, but fulfilling nonetheless. It surges from my head to my feet and back up again. Chills circulate throughout my body and I sway uncontrollably. As the cause of this overflowing joy continues, I want nothing more than to run into the street and force strangers to recognize how incredible the source of my state of ecstasy is, and how they need to come with me and experience it for themselves. If they decline, I would shake them as one might shake a Dell computer, which has decided not to print out a Humanities essay the night before it is due.
The bewildered imaginary person I confront on the street would be no more inclined to follow my strongly communicated recommendations than would my unfortunately real Dell computer be inclined to cooperate with me and save my grade in a very real college class. But back in reality, I am able to control my moments of temporary insanity by channeling this lapse of rationality into energy and near-religious idolization and admiration for the performer in front of me.
Instead, all I can do is offer an attractive breakdown as to why the human or inanimate object, as it may be, should strongly consider doing what I say.
This is the struggle in which I find myself often. As persistently as I may try to convince others that Katia Moraes and Jill Scott should each have their own respective holiday week for their varied musical contributions, those to whom I speak are sometimes intolerant of my views, don’t give the music time to mature like a finely aged wine, or they simply ignore me and wonder why a strange man with googly eyes is talking to them on the street.
Truthfully, though, those two musical artists, the mere mention of whose names brings a muscle-stretching smile to my face, are not the best artists alive or dead. How can I possibly make such an absolute statement without first listening to every piece of music ever recorded?
I can’t, and I love that finding new artists from an ever-evolving array of musical genres is like a never-ending quest which must be pleasurably pursued and earnestly enjoyed along the way.
Similar to many aspects in life, judging an item by its outward appearance or label is not always the smartest move. I can’t possibly count how many times I have listened to an obscure or not so obscure artist or group from a genre I never expected to appreciate, only to find a new favorite. Like Elefant. Or Alliance Ethnik. And even Michael Franks.
Like sushi, you never know if you will enjoy something until you try the foreign item.
Like sushi, however, being adventurous isn’t always satisfying.
But that is no reason to give up a musical adventure. Don’t like sashimi? Try a California Roll. Jill Scott not to your liking? Pick something completely different and see if you find yourself grooving to a fresh sound you never knew existed.
I live for those moments.
The feeling I get is one of complete and glorious immersion in the music. I am usually rewarded by my musical travels with a hidden gem, which makes filtering through the other handful of less desirable CDs well worth it. For me, finding a new promising musical artist or group (especially one with a lengthy musical catalogue) is like finding a chest full of valuable jewels, or a room of fully-chested beautiful women waiting to please you, and only you