I haven’t listened to mainstream music for 25 years. That’s right—quarter of a century of radio silence from the charts. Since the advent of the iPhone, I’ve relied on an FM-transmitter to play anything I had on my phone—an old device that seemed destined for world-wide infamy. Google it. Honestly, I think it’s still waiting for its moment in the sun.
Since I started writing books and articles in 2002, I discovered that words in music—no matter how softly they whisper or boldly they shout—distract me from my focus. English lyrics, in particular, seem to steer my thoughts like a ship on stormy seas. That’s why I fell in love with Andrea Bocelli. No, I don’t speak polished Italian, but his voice? It’s like a gentle balm that makes writing easier—no words to compete with my thoughts, just pure, ethereal sound.
My early years? Ah, a smoke-filled den, my Dad’s chess victories, and the endless scroll of book spines. Classical music floated through the haze—an endless, almost sacred soundtrack to my childhood. Then came the explosive ‘80s (1982–1989), when pop music was anthemic and rebellious, still resonating with Gen-Zers, their kids, and even grandkids. Many are raised with Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, CCR, or Pink Floyd.
And then, a pivotal moment: I ran with Motley Crue for about twenty years after a friend played me the intro to Shout At the Devil. Lights out, volume up—hard rock magic, as raw and powerful as it gets. In 1986, I fell under the spell of Iron Maiden. Their brilliance was unmatched—until approximately 2006, when I sensed a dip in their sonic fireworks. Fun fact: the lead singer has five Master’s degrees and a commercial airline pilot’s license. That’s right—so rich, so talented, they do it for the fans. Well, almost—minus one, perhaps.
Fast forward to 1993: a girlfriend introduced me to American country music. For four and a half years, I was a country convert—until Wyoming where we were working illegally, well, onlyu I was. That was the issue, she was supposed to work. I drove her home and flew to Estonia, as one does when Wyoming fails you. She stopped listening to country; I carried it like a badge through the mid-‘90s, a sonic souvenir of love and loss.
In 2000/2001, I found myself in Russia, eager to immerse in its musical culture. Piracy was rampant—any CD I wanted, for two bucks. Tupac, Eminem, Enya, Cektor Gaza—my playlist knew no borders. I was making enough money teaching at two universities to buy CDs just to sample the rich tapestry of Russian bands, composers, and rappers.
Writing consumes about 20 hours of my day—research, reflection, and playlists. My musical refuge? Mostly classical and classical crossover of the 21st century. And a single link—Dirk Maassen’s Solstice D’été, the Full Album. That album shook my musical expectations to their core. If I only had one album to listen to for the rest of my life, it would be this pastoral architect's insatiable appetite for depth in all directions. It remains one of few albums that is consistently profound in each and every piece. I listened to this album so incessantly, I was sent a note by Apple Music that I was one of his Top 100 listeners globally. I'm not ashamed to say I am addicted to this album, I can't really listen to any of his others, they don't move me. But with that entrance, welcome...
But my ears are restless. With pulsing beats and soaring violin solos echoing in my head, I explored trance (sometimes called “spa music”) and even techno. Yes, techno—don’t judge me; I’ve got rhythm, after all.
Then came Taylor Swift—an artist worth a billion dollars—and I thought, Let’s see what all the fuss is about. Her catchy tunes, rapid-syllable vocals, and a wall of sound that’s diverse and dynamic—every note carefully crafted, every nuance explored. I’d say Johannes Bach would appreciate the meticulous craftsmanship.
She’s not quite my cup of tea—I give her, like, Britney Spears squared—I respect her artistry. She’s not just breaking notes; she’s articulating a culture—country twang meets neo-punk pop. Good for her. But after Ms. Swift, I need some classical prose—something Bach-like, counterpoint to soothe my soul.
One terrible day in life I took my golden cocker spaniel for a walk in the pouring rain at a closed park. As I stood there, drenched to the bone, and wondering if I could really do 25-to-life like I said I could, Shasta vomited onto my right shoe. BWV 1044 is aka, "The 'Shasta's Not Feeling Well'" piece.
And here’s a little bonus—since we’re where we are, I’ll share the intro to Motley Crue’s Shout At the Devil. Because, hey, what’s life without a little rock ‘n’ roll rebellion? Here is In the Beginning... and Shout at the Devil.
The way it bleeds into the next song is as monumental in 1980s Rock as Iron Maiden's Churchills' Speech flows into Aces High. Ooh, another necessary link below.
One could stare at their covers for days. This Intro/Attack song was the exact way it was on the original 1985 vinyl album (CA$10.99), so legions of Gen-Xers know this famous entry into one of the greatest Heavy Metal Albums of all time. It about running to your Spitfire on the runway in WWII as the Germans were attacking England, and taking to the skies to duel, a wound that saturates the lyrics of many Maiden songs.
