Husband and I, upon entering a fresh, new, fun-loving marriage, discovered we had opposing tastes in music.
And not like, “I’m a little country, he’s a little bit rock-and-roll,” which is cute enough to be an entire song. He loves … hard rock? Heavy metal? Whatever Metallica falls under — that is what he likes to listen to.
But there’s this weird caveat that allows him to also really enjoy Top 40 Hits, and I swear before God and all these witnesses, one time he intentionally purchased a Selena Gomez song off Amazon.com because he just liked the way it sounded. Husband. My husband.
I really enjoy alternative music, which he lovingly refers to as “garage band music” (false) and generally makes fun of because of the lyrics/music/sound/artist/band name/appearance of the lead singer (and I’ll give him that because a lot of them look like they’re homeless and really morose, with messy hair and little pants). I once managed to drag him to a Sondre Lerche concert in a real craphole, and he spent part of the night watching “Forrest Gump” on the television in the corner and the other part wondering why the girl across the stage from us was staring us down, rather creepily, while singing every. single. word. of Sondre’s songs.
And by now you’re probably wondering how it is that was survive even short road trips to his parent’s home three hours away; clearly, that’s taken care of by our similar love of Dance Hits of the 90s. He has 100 of them.
No really, he has an album called The Top 100 Dance Hits of the 90s.
Since he had several gigabytes of music he rarely listened to (putting the iPod on shuffle was a real joke — we’d get “Semi-Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind, followed by some Croatian pop hit — long story there — and then something much like Narada … I know, clearly I have superior taste in music in this relationship), he decided one afternoon to go through each album, listening to it and then determining how many, if any, songs he would actually save to his 1 TB hard drive (because maybe he’ll actually need that much storage). I was rather pleased to hear this plan — in fact, my parents are doing almost the exact same thing with their records, and there’s something about my husband and my parents doing the same thing that just really makes me excited.
But I failed to realize that would mean he’d be pulling all his crappy music out and listening to it, song by song, sometimes ad nauseum because “Oh man I forgot I had this song!,” and it began to wear on me. Like this morning, when I was treated to Rammstein (literally anxiety-inducing), Limp Bizkit (terrible AND embarrassing), and The Offspring (shoot me in the face to put me out of this misery now, please).
We finally settled on “We No Speak Americano” followed by “Like a G6.”