Musical DNA

Every time I glance at my shelf, that shelters my CDs with an intense grip, like a mother keeping her cub warm while the snow melts, all I see are colorful, sleek spines on a shelf. But if I took the time to examine the dusty worn jewel cases, I couldn’t help but escape back to the times of my youth, when my world was awakened by a single CD.

Though playlists can be seen as a spiritual successor, nothing will come close to the lost art of the mixtape. The thought and care that one must put in, to make a physical, personalized selection of the music just for you, is immense. Even if I may have missed the age of the cassette tape, I experienced both the height and the downfall of the compact disc. Something that is rapidly fading away nowadays; a mere shadow of its former image.

Songs of Utter Importance, the title of the entrance to my musical infatuation, the glaring exit sign that hung inside the sheltered, silent existence which I laid in. It was a “mix-cd” from my father, and was the only thing inside my off-brand discman. I played it to my little heart’s content, to the point where it was unable to read a track or two. The tracks not only included the classics, like Queen or The Who, but the great obscure bands, like Persephone’s Bees or The Blue Van. I would blast them through my flimsy pair of Skullcandy headphones, until my father bought me a boombox. Everybody got a taste eventually.

I was already quite fortunate to grow up surrounded by music. Everything from P-Funk to Black Metal, I was always aware of the eclectic nature of music, but I didn’t always care. I was ignorant towards its importance, and the intricate world within its creative walls. But with time, I was shaped, molded by the rhythms and grooves that were widely promoted by this CD, having them nested firmly within my young and malleable ears. I became one with the rhythm, feeling a sensation like no other.

The warmth I experienced with music never went away. When I’ve had a long, tiring day, waiting for time to strike, it being late and hurried, and I feel as if my muscles are about to snap and retract, all I want is a little peace and quiet. I, alone in my chambers, wrap my cold, lifeless ears with plush, pillow-y muffs, as my body and mind require the most solace. I am swept away into another realm.

The coarse sounds of life are hidden within a thick, yet sensitive layer of sound and rhythm. The grooves twist and turn, unable to calm its prolific amusement. The percussionist within falls deep into its trap, becoming prey to its systematic control. I feel my eardrums swell with every adjustment in volume.

I soon forget what’s playing. The intensity of the complex mix of tones and melodies become white and blank, creating the perfect silence. My mind becomes vulnerable, it opening my thoughts obediently to its new owner. My inner angels and demons spill, drowning out the devoteless mind. My imagination fleets, intertwining my auditory senses with ambivalent frequencies like a string of musical DNA.

As soon as I reach the peak: the epitome of self indulgence; the high descends into obscurity, leaving me naked and empty. The brain is switched back on, to reveal an unchanged and unfulfilled reality that was once avoided. I then return to the world, realizing I can no longer hide within a blanket musical euphoria. The music never leaves; never sleeps at all. No matter how many times I may repeat my disc, creating gashes and scars on the smooth playable surface of a disc or the course ridged faces of a record, thinning the tape within the weak plastic casing of a cassette, or corrupting the files on your portable player: the music will never leave.

“To live is to be musical, starting with the blood dancing in your veins. Everything living has a rhythm. Do you feel your music?” ― Michael Jackson