The only thing I missed about my high school days is my relationship with music. It had been so simple and mess-free. It was the accompaniment to the memories I created with my best friends, nothing more, nothing less. Yet explicitly quintessential to my, to our, existence there.
But recently? It became a tug-of-war of love-hate relationship; the term fluctuates between 'Me and Music' and 'Me against Music'. What was once a free choice is now merely an option within the choices dictated by others. And sometimes I just do not know how to feel about the music I play, or if I should feel anything at all. Understanding and memorizing the history behind the various genres do not change things. Respect does not always translate to love.
Often, music is not about telling people how you feel; it is about making people feel what they want to feel. Like when my mood swing sews together a playlist of Bossa Nova pieces to blanket the house or the tiny space of my car, it is not because of having an obsession with the genre, but simply because I want to feel just that; the unclasping of all my tensions, the soft chords like the firm hammock that beckons me to lay down and relax, the clocking of the bass notes alternating between the root and fifth akin to the push and pull of tide against the shore that washes away my stress. I want to come undone with my emotions, and Bossa Nova happens to give me just that.
This is what I turn to music for; it is my voice when my words stay silent, when my heart is incapable of expressing, when my mind cannot find any other way to speak. Music is a language and the genres are merely dialects. We write the same beanstalks of notes after all, we just have a different manner of pronouncing them; if we can accept the Chinese having one form of written characters with varying sounds of articulation that is termed dialect, why can’t we with musical genres? Our playing style is merely geographically or music culturally shaped slangs and accents.
Human being is hypocritical bunch; they come up with these tacky lines like ‘Don’t judge a book by its covers’, preaching individualism, then they do this cute ballerina twist so you will be an unsuspecting victim to the throw knife they plant into your back when they start labeling you according to the songs that you listen to, or enjoy playing.
Whatever happened to ‘music is an expression’? And that there is no such thing as a bad music, just a differently expressed one? A person strumming pop chords does not signify he is jazz licks-challenged or he has no knowledge of other genres; he just expresses himself better in the simple four-chord style. And this sad prejudice is a shadow of mine; I have lost count of the people who are taken aback the instant I began conversing in Mandarin or told them I sat for SPM level Chinese language papers. Apparently my fluency and preference of using English language are the only headlines they want to read. How will you judge me then? Does my strength in English seem more impressive or less so, now that you realize I did not graduate from an exotic international high school?
I guess I have made my point.
Granted, current popular music may not be intellectually enhancing, according to the researches that I assume are conducted in an unbiased manner, but they are more than just tunes and pretty lyrics to me than the 'real music' ever is. Because sometimes you need songs that are shallow, hollow, like a discarded seashell, so that you could deepen it with sounds of your own memories. The way accompanying music gives depth to a film.
In a sense, music is the soundtrack to our movie. When I hear certain songs, I do not visualize them in the commercialized music videos; instead, I see the faces of my friends with the backdrop of those moments captured in the nets of these tunes. Us flinging ourselves off the edge and into the water to the techno beats of Black Eyed Peas’s I Got a Feelin’ during our annual pool party; us feigning drunk after a sip of homemade cocktails while swaying to Amy Winehouse’s Rehab; and us singing our anthem of Jojo’s Too Little Too Late every time we missed our homework deadline, which was, well, all the time. Our scrapbook is so thick that it is no wonder my mind has no space for reality. And this, this is yet another tread of music that we tend to overlook as it weaves itself so tightly into our life’s tapestry.
What I cannot overlook is, the incredulity people wear to fend themselves from my deadly statement of me listening to mainstream, popular songs. They do not bother to flip beyond the cover page to the stories behind my song choice. It does not matter if no two people in the world love or listen to music for the same reason, much less enjoy the same songs. All they care is equating your favorite playlist to your music skills.
It is amazing how judgmental the world has become. Or it has always been this way, and it was my naivety that protected me.
And sadly, being a music student in this particular university somehow deprives me of the luxurious simplicity of enjoying songs that I love, without having to hide in the shadows and pray no one will stumble upon my mp3 player and suffer a heart attack from viewing my song list. Even letting known my favorite tunes has a price to pay.
I guess I have said it, but I will say it again: I sure miss the good ol’ days of high school when it was just us, our mad streak and our cache of songs to fit the puzzles of our rendezvous.
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