Stolen indentity
I downloaded my soul into a little white box
KALPANA SRINARAYANADAS
This summer at Folklorama, while my cousins and I wowed the crowd with our stellar dance skills, my car was broken into. The punks jacked my brand new stereo, broke the passenger side window, disconnected a few wires, and stole my IPod from the glove box. Usually I wouldn’t leave something as precious as my 40GB IPod in my car, but I’m sure even Michael Jordan forgets his lucky shorts on occasion.
So, while everyone was distraught about the car, I was devastated over the loss of my compact little white box of musical heaven. I was concerned about the car — it was my aunt and uncle’s car and I had borrowed it while house sitting for them. However, a window and stereo could be replaced. The time and effort that had gone into collecting, organizing and transferring over 5,000 songs to my IPod was invaluable.
So, what would the person that stole my IPod do with my music? Did they even like the same music I did? What did they think of the music I listened to? Did they appreciate the witty names of each of my playlists? Did they feel like they knew me because of what I listened to? And also, did they over-analyze everything as much as I do? Well, I can’t really answer those questions, but I did start asking myself this: what does the type of music one listens to say about them?
I am always interested to look through other students’ shared ITunes playlists while studying at IQs. And during this period of trying to avoid studying, I have found that each playlist is distinct and personal. Though there are a few staples within each playlist (one or two Top 40 singles, a classic rock band, some indie stuff, and occasionally some classical or jazz music), everyone has varied tastes. There is such a vast amount of music out there that the music you choose to buy, download, or steal, says something. But, what does it say exactly? What does it say about the person who has every Led Zeppelin album? Or the person who has an affinity for country music? Can we judge someone based on their playlist, or is it the equivalent of judging a book by its cover?
The ITunes shared playlists are a non-specific, uncensored version of someone’s life. When it comes to listing your likes and dislikes, say on your MySpace page, people become a little more aware and editorial. For the most part, people follow a certain modus operandi when creating their list; that is to say, people put out their Sunday best. On these lists you are likely to find a classic of some sort: Led Zeppelin, Miles Davis, Tupac; an obscure, esoteric musician or band such as [insert random band name here]; and a mainstream success to indicate contemporary music knowledge like Timberlake or Beyoncé. Who you want to be, or who you want people to perceive you as, is what comes across in these lists.
So, could I, while avoiding my paper on Coleridge, pick out the person with affection for music of the Canadian indie-rock persuasion? Is the person studying for an art history final, wearing round-toed shoes and a classic cardigan, the person with a great collection of classical music? I don’t think you can explicitly define someone by the type of music they listen to. Artsy. Rebel. Gansta. Slightly disturbed. There is no formula revealing what type of person you are. Classic punk rock + jazz does not equate to a pseudo-intellectual political rebel. As Sheryl Crow said, “we don’t have defining moments, we have refining moments.” This concept can apply to music too. I believe music cannot define who you are, but it will change the way you look at yourself and the world around you. The first time you hear “Rebel, Rebel,” “Hallelujah,” or “Juicy,” could open your eyes to or change the way you perceive sexuality, death, and growing up in the mean streets. Your playlist is evidence of the various transformations that occur in your life. “If you don’t know, now you know.”
So, to the punk that stole my IPod I offer you this: you may not be able to identify me in a crowd, but you may know me as well as my own mother, and not even realize it. In your hands, you have evidence of my (somewhat embarrassing) junior-high obsession with ’NSYNC and No Scrubs. You possess confirmation of my childhood Ace of Base craze of ’93. You hold the great female jazz vocalists — Ella, Dinah, Billie and Nina — who carried me through my first year of university. These memories, lovingly and meticulously divided into playlists with apt and clever names, were taken away from me. The only way I can truly explain the emotion that I feel toward you is if you scroll down to the playlist entitled Annie Get Your Tunes, and listen to “You Hurt Me (And I Hate You).” I believe it explains it all.
