I just got XM Radio for my car.
I had it for the house, which is great, but very hard to hear on long trips (like past the driveway).
I’ve become a fan of the Beyond Jazz channel, which is described as plugged-in jazz. It’s part funky, part jazzy, part rock and part other stuff. Pardon me, but I’m not like those music critics who have the ability to mix a butt load of adjectives with a mountain of pop culture references to give you an electric picture of the sound, like:
“Ron Myron’s last offering is a transcendental reunion which recalls the virtual pizza-shop beats of the Jazzmo age, but kicks back with a gerrymandering trespass of quasi neo fiction slam.”
My attraction to the station is due in large part to its ability to make me feel like I’m in a movie. When I hop in my car and crank it through the speakers, I can virtually transport myself from my mundane experiences into a life of adventure.
Many of the tunes sound like the ones in the Oceans Eleven soundtrack. I imagine being with a bunch of my friends traveling somewhere in Bangor, Maine to rob a business in an entertaining and clever way. It would be me, my wife and two children, my friend Micah, probably my mother and the elderly guy across the street.
Oh, and Willem Dafoe.
I don’t really know him, but he’s in everything and just looking at him makes me feel 500% more attractive.
Don’t get me wrong. I travel to some really exciting places in my car. Oh, yeah. Like, five days per week, I will commute 30 miles from home to work. Then, I might do something completely different, like drive 30 miles from work to home.
You see, my life is just one adventure after another.
It’s a necessary coping device to use this music to entertain me. Seven miles into my trip, Beyond Jazz spins a playful sax piece with a nasty baseline. I furrow my brow and look around at my surroundings, amused, as if I’ve never traveled this route before.
It’s merely a way to occupy my time until the movie cuts to the next scene in a few seconds, when I will undoubtedly be met in my 47th floor New York office by my beautiful, but flighty secretary who is studying to be a veterinarian.
It doesn’t happen, though. I tune back in to real life as I see that guy who’s always driving his bike around looking on the sides of the road for returnable cans and bottles.
No bother. I’ll just keep on. Ten minutes later, I hear a fast-paced percussion beat behind a slap base with a trumpet melody. I speed up to 60 mph hour. I’ve got to get to the diner and meet my podiatrist before my agent shows up or shenanigans will ensue. It’s a zany predicament, but one of which I’m familiar in this rollicking, laugh-fest which the New York Times calls “delightfully hilarious, easily one of this summer’s top comedies.”
I suddenly slam on my brakes to miss a cat crossing the street. Movie over. My lunch flies from the front seat and lands on the floor, opening and spilling. Not a good scene.
I pull over and clean up as best as I can. The radio kicks out what sounds like a synthesized clarinet solo with keyboard accompaniment. I turn it off. I’m too busy picking up my meal from the front seat of the car. It’s a tasty little treat that can be best described as “a delicious medley of macaroni and cheese intermarried with projected peas and carrots lying restfully upon a liberal mix of tracked-in foot dirt and cat droppings.
Easily one of this year’s most frustrating messes.”