In this day and age, it seems the world is binomial. White or black? This or that? Apple Music or Spotify? Just like everything else, these are subjective opinions. However, the reciprocity of customer care is not so subjective.
There’s an image I can never really get out of my head: the boy in baggy jeans and a grown-out crew cut, also known as Chad Michael Murray in the millionth iteration of “A Cinderella Story.” The year is 2004 and I’ve probably never loved anything more than this jock-turned-Prince Charming and poet at heart, all fictional of course. He’s got that hard exterior but soft interior, the kind of personality that makes all the girls keep pictures of him in their lockers. Utterly unattainable.
Every time I hear the first guitar chord of “Can’t Stop” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers blare from speakers, a divine intervention takes place. My heart swells to Herculean proportions and starts pumping an extra liter of blood through my veins. My limbs spastically flail and dart in futile attempts to keep my dancing trunk in equilibrium, and my slightly smudged lenses through which I usually see the world are instantly replaced by a kaleidoscope of iridescent globules and blobs.
I was born and raised surrounded by music.
From the time I was an infant, my parents would host informal music education sessions, popping CDs into the 8-track player built into our old minivan, gracing my ears with a variety of classic and alternative rock, from Queen to Rob Thomas and so much in between.