Curated. I really loathe that word. Skin curls and faces wince at the sound of “Perfectly crafted for your enjoyment”.
The truck-nuts of music discovery.
It’s a playlist. It should invoke a range of emotions, dreams and moments that obliterate your perceived world….right?
The fluctuations in key. The alterations of sort. Emanating from pure noise, demanding reactions from each sense.
That said, there’s no science to this. There’s no talent. Someone, somewhere released a song, placed a track in another playlist, told the world about…whatever and we just happen to find it. Rinse, repeat. Wash on Permanent Press.
It’s just a playlist, man.
I can’t say I didn’t spend hours over a summer painstakingly spacing tracks, from the radio, on cassette tapes for friends. I may have burned hundreds of CDs for my then-girlfriend/now-wife, not in the hopes of projecting juvenile love…but rather an intense desire to find the right flow. The Holy Grail of harmonic experience.
As a disorderly person, I explicitly value the reverse notion in my musical experience. Pick a song and make sure it gently (or sometimes abruptly) glides into the following track of choice.
While organization in real world scenarios has eluded me since birth, my desire to share has flourished from youth to…whatever I am now. A growing up.
The excitement of watching a friend as they experience a track for the first time is elating. Our music speaks a language we may never decipher and, frankly, no need to spoil.
Amiably speaking, I love sharing…what I love. That just happens to be music.
So until next time…get loose, get lost and enjoy the sauce.