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Where’s my charming, crate digger?

I grew up surrounded by dusty, Motown and Rock n’ Roll album jackets. I was a pretend DJ at five years old, playing Hall and Oates while recording fake callers and polling listeners. I spent my childhood digging around crates full of vinyl that my parents collected–the Beatles, Drifters, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, so when a guy on a dating site says “I really don’t like music,” I’m at a loss for words.

How do you NOT like music?

I’m tired of being apologetic about my love of music. One dude sardonically mused: “Wow, you really love music, I guess.” Like it’s a bad thing, like I should be interested in something different like financial trading or checkers. Yes, I do. I love music.

Now, I don’t sit there and count out beats and measures, nor do I deny the creativity of bands like Phish or Dave Matthews though they’re not in my repertoire.  But if you have a decent music collection, I can assure you of a bonafide admit-one. If you especially like strong-minded, free-thinking lady musicians, you have seasons tickets.

I don’t care if you are unemployed or throw boulders for a living, if you own at least one Nina Simone, Grace Jones, Runaways or Joni Mitchell album, you can have the business all day. But if you’re favorite band of all time is Godsmack, we’re going to have issues.

I was recently asked out by a guy that didn’t own any music. Literally, no music anywhere in the house. None. Pandora shuffle ain’t the holy grail, man.

I want the guy from the open mic that does the D’Angelo cover or the Cure or Psych Furs. Give me something, anything.

If you know ‘Frank’ by Amy–both sides, not just “the Rehab song” or Son House or who Third Man records is, you can have it.

In kindergarten, I brought in the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack to school and the kids went nuts. In sixth grade, I brought Whitney Houston’s self-titled to a sleepover of all white kids and they were like “who is this? We didn’t have much money growing up, but we never skimped on music. In fact, certain albums have gotten me through tough times in my life.

PJ Harvey’s “Dry” got me through college along with My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless, Tori’s “From the Choirgirl Hotel” got me through a huge loss, The Roots “Phrenology” got me through a rough spell in graduate school. I watched a bunch of raging, mutant teenagers tear up the lawn at Lollapalooza, so I won’t be submitting to anyone’s Creed anthology anytime soon.

So Pull Up to my Bumper, Suspend me in Gaffa for 120 Minutes, Bring your Love to Me In Rainbows and I might show you my Stairway to Heaven.

And while we’re on the topic of powerful females, P. Downes poses the legitimate question “Where have all the rock chicks gone?

*This post is dedicated to the loving memory of my favorite digga’ of all time, James Dewitt Yancey aka J. Dilla. Happy Birthday*

About Kristen Damasida

Writer and Photographer for Virago Magazine, Kristen grew up listening to vinyl and highlighting the dictionary. Her work has appeared in IrockJazz.com, The East Harlem Journal, Boston's Culturehive, the Ithacan and other publications. Her love of music cannot be eclipsed by her love of words. She's been coined the "Akira Kurosawa of Blogs" by such people as herself. An aspiring musician, she has a serious penchant for peach-flavored anything, multi-tasking, slow-paced thrillers and dreams of going back to South America, laying on the beach, and drinking from a coconut.

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