Have been working on the website revision and while working I’ve been listening to an XM channel on the Direct TV that H.o.p. had turned on to help him sleep. It’s mostly very soothing, fairly insipid synth harpy windy music. We’re not talking Brian Eno. Mostly meandering stuff, very even in temper, and sometimes tinkly sweet, like the version of “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme” that’s now playing. I can vaguely hear it from the next room. And while I was working, after listening to this for a couple of hours, I began to feel sentimental, sad, maudlin, rather than worried and driven by angst (which tends to be my natural state of being). So, is just plain insipid enough to provoke tears? I believe it’s supposed to be meditativey feel good music.
The music has now morphed into a variation on “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme” in which the same line is played over and over and over again with slightly differing arrangements.
It’s making me sleepy.
I imagine the synth whines now playing are supposed to mimic whale calls. And there’s a woman singing over them. No words. More whale whines. More insipid sadness. I don’t know what we’re supposed to be picturing but I don’t think it’s bad new age siren singers and beached whales, which is what I’m seeing.
A guitar has been strumming the same few notes for a few minutes now.
Someone was called and told, “We want sleepytime music, hours of it. Think Celestial Seasonings tea instead of warm milk or cocoa.” And it paid the rent.
I feel less sad now, putting it into context, some producer daily going home groaning about how it’s getting difficult to make hours of sleepytime music sound the same but just a little different.
“I know, I’ll next use sitar!”
Which is what has now entered. A sitar.
No percussion. I think it’s been hours since I’ve heard any percussion, come to think of it.
I bet if there was percussion involved it wouldn’t have become depressing.
Wait, wait. Sounds like almost, yes, maybe, a little up-tempo something entering (no not dj literal but nearly raging gregarious comparatively)…
Agh! No, turns around and becomes tear-your-wretched-heart-out-and-sling-it-on-the-floor marshy grief with repetitive violin voices cycling into pointless oblivion, off the road and into the soul-eating bog.
“Well, why don’t you put something else on?”
I could. But I’m now fascinated, wondering what they’re going to tediously do next.
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