Muse of the Throng, as Told by Me

There are certain aspects of humanity that are assumed to be universal. Hence the common questions like "what is your favorite color?, lucky number?, movie?, or food?" One of these frequently asked questions is that of one's "favorite band."

Most people have an answer. Sometimes it just pops in their head when they are asked, sometimes the lead singer is a "hottie", and sometimes they are genuinely moved by melodies, driving rhythms, or lyrics.

When I was young my parents didn't really introduce my sister and me to any music. I heard the occasional Simon and Garfunkel, but in general, what was played on the local tame radio station is what I heard going to and from school, the grocery store, the movies, or the gas station. (We were educated well in other ways, and road trips always held the promise of "War of the Worlds" and "The Lone Ranger.")

My first experience with music of my own choosing was Alphaville, originally chosen for the popular middle school dance favorite "Forever Young" and later adopted on the merit of the music as a whole. They were "my favorite band." I owned everything that they produced and listened to cassette tapes until each and every one of them deteriorated from over use and fluttered away to that great big tape deck in the sky in a flurry of gray analog fury.

By the time my second 'favorite' came along, I was a full participant of the digital age and was, like so many of us, thrilled to hear the same songs over and over, without pops or warbles or demonic slowing and speeding up at odd intervals. The culprit this time? 'The Dave Matthews Band' on CD. My tastes and my listening had both matured and, thanks to a then-to-be-future-brother-in-law I was introduced to the DMB prior to their debut on the societal front pages. The were just evolving out of their bar playing phase and starting the trek to stardom by traveling with then-more-well-known bands as the opening act. The first time I saw them they followed "The Boxing Ghandi's" and preceded "Big Head Todd and the Monsters" at the Apollo Saleri in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The second time I saw them, three months later, they were the headliner and "Big Head Todd" was left somewhere in the dust. I was enamored with their melodious, lyrical nature, and their wonderful array of instruments. I was also flushed with the excitement of knowing a band that was new and fresh when they were opening for someone else. I knew them well enough to scream "All Along the Watchtower" with the full capacity of my theatrically trained lungs from the eighth row of the open air theater, and to make spine tingling eye contact with Dave himself for the brief moment when the thought "what the fu@#?!" must have crossed his mind. Hey, they played it. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY, THEY PLAYED IT FOR ME!!!! Just ask my brother-in-law. Last I heard, he blames me for not screaming it out when they came back three months later, which, of course, resulted in them NOT playing it. The evidence is clear, but I digress. The infatuation with Dave lasted throughout the remainder of my high school experience and into my college days. It lives on now, in fact, and I am still occasionally overcome with the urge to listen to nothing but Dave for days at a time. Again, I own everything. Singles, albums, live shows, imports, everything that I, or SF, could get my hands on.

But then something happened that has never happened to me before, nor do I imagine it will happen again. I met Muse.

One inspiring song on the radio was played often enough, and intrigued me thoroughly enough, that I requested of SF that he purchase it for me so that I could hear what other types of songs they had. Within seconds of putting the disc into my player I was convinced that I had found the most incredibly talented, passionate, intelligent, and addictive music in the world. I believed this so thoroughly that I brought it home and waited patiently for SF to arrive. I delicately placed the album into SF's stereo, cuing it up, adjusting the volume to the peak listening range, clearing off the couch, fluffing the pillows, and waiting.

When he came through the door I hushed him quickly and sat him down on the couch, ready to present him with the most moving experience of his life, undoubtedly. I was certain his questioning glance would dissipate the moment the opening march of the album reached his ears, and that he would fall into a coma of ecstasy as I had. My excitement was palpable.

He listened.

He listened with all the attention that one with as careful and trained ears can muster. He, this Adonis of musical understanding, knowledge, and pure LISTENING ability was being introduced to the Magis of music by ME. His eyes unfocused somewhere between the speakers and his head. Only his ears seemed engaged. His teeth, released from his conscious prison, began to gnaw his lip. He was absorbing. He was understanding. He was hearing more than I could ever hear, and I was momentarily jealous.

The pause between tracks one and two opened the void and he blinked up at me. "I know!!" I wanted to scream. "You can cry if you want to!!!" My smile was aching my earlobes.

"It's good." He said with some forced, earnest tones.

what? but...did you...i don't understand. this is MUSE, this is passion, this is life, this is blood. what about the piano? were you even listening....how could this happen???

And so a realization came to me. Beauty is in the ear of the beholder. I have come to terms with the fact that SF does not love Muse as much as I do. He does not need them. They are not a drug that he cannot do without. They do not play the soundtrack to his life. He does not like them more than some other stupid band that he compared them to. But I realized something else as well. They are not my 'favorite' band. That doesn't really do them justice. That term, that phrase, as is apparent from my history, is temporary to me. I, apparently, have lots of 'favorite' bands...but I have only one Muse.