I’ve got into the habit of playing a handful of YouTube clips of songs that put me in a good mood, when I’m in the
bath in the morning.
This is not without risk. I keep my mobile on the window ledge above the bath: reaching up to it with the driest hand that I can muster, to switch from one clip to another. It’s my personal take on an extreme sport. If only there were other ways I could do it, such as listening to a playlist I’d set up in advance or - God forbid - an ALBUM, there’d be less chance of me making an insurance claim in the near future. What can I say? I like to live dangerously.
The music I choose tends to go around in cycles. I’ll listen to the same few songs for a week or two, then move on to something else. I’m quite careful about my selections, never wanting to play anything so maudlin that it makes me want to slip my head below the surface. I’m like the priest in Father Ted who listens to the Theme from Shaft to lift himself from depression, without the coach-riding Exit Music (For a Film) bit.
(Niche reference.)
That’s not to say that everything I choose is relentlessly upbeat. It can be something thoughtful. If I need a calm-me-down, I’ll pick something appropriate. I’ll go for whatever settles my mind on any given day. It’s also a good way of ensuring I don’t stay in the bath too long; two or three songs are usually enough. It’s when I start listening to prog rock that there’ll be cause to worry.
For the last week or so, I’ve been flipping between Ray Charles ('I Got A Woman', 'Georgia on My Mind' and 'Hallelujah I Love Her So') and Elton John (his 1976 solo Edinburgh live version of 'Bennie and the Jets' and Old Grey Whistle Test’s 'Tiny Dancer'). I’m a middle-aged man in a slightly under middle-aged body. I work on the basic principle of ‘nothing that was released after my birth date, unless it’s a later work from a 60s or 70s artist’.
If I’m feeling particularly excitable, I’ll stick on The Who’s Baba O’Riley. I’ve been known to kick the bathroom door down in this instance. You don’t want to know what I swing around in the style of Roger Daltrey’s mic, believe me.
This is not without risk. I keep my mobile on the window ledge above the bath: reaching up to it with the driest hand that I can muster, to switch from one clip to another. It’s my personal take on an extreme sport. If only there were other ways I could do it, such as listening to a playlist I’d set up in advance or - God forbid - an ALBUM, there’d be less chance of me making an insurance claim in the near future. What can I say? I like to live dangerously.
The music I choose tends to go around in cycles. I’ll listen to the same few songs for a week or two, then move on to something else. I’m quite careful about my selections, never wanting to play anything so maudlin that it makes me want to slip my head below the surface. I’m like the priest in Father Ted who listens to the Theme from Shaft to lift himself from depression, without the coach-riding Exit Music (For a Film) bit.
(Niche reference.)
That’s not to say that everything I choose is relentlessly upbeat. It can be something thoughtful. If I need a calm-me-down, I’ll pick something appropriate. I’ll go for whatever settles my mind on any given day. It’s also a good way of ensuring I don’t stay in the bath too long; two or three songs are usually enough. It’s when I start listening to prog rock that there’ll be cause to worry.
For the last week or so, I’ve been flipping between Ray Charles ('I Got A Woman', 'Georgia on My Mind' and 'Hallelujah I Love Her So') and Elton John (his 1976 solo Edinburgh live version of 'Bennie and the Jets' and Old Grey Whistle Test’s 'Tiny Dancer'). I’m a middle-aged man in a slightly under middle-aged body. I work on the basic principle of ‘nothing that was released after my birth date, unless it’s a later work from a 60s or 70s artist’.
If I’m feeling particularly excitable, I’ll stick on The Who’s Baba O’Riley. I’ve been known to kick the bathroom door down in this instance. You don’t want to know what I swing around in the style of Roger Daltrey’s mic, believe me.