It has recently come to my attention that I am completely and utterly at the mercy of whatever music I am listening to at the moment.
(Yeah, I'm just going to jump right in and ignore that it has been months since I last posted. Won't you join me?)
Mom and I used to have a saying that still rings oh-so-true: "Music makes you do stupid shit." Whether it be an ill-advised*, impromptu dance party inspired by J. Lo's "Let's Get Loud," or a full-blown snotty breakdown a la Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me," music can so powerfully and unexpectedly hijack your emotions (and subsequent appropriate behaviors, which may or may not get you kicked out of the Stardust hotel, clutching your third everclear-spiked daiquiri and dripping mascara all over your party shirt...hypothetically).
But it goes even further than just the emotional impact. I find that I dress and carry myself differently based on what tunes are currently in heavy rotation.
For example, I am at the moment absolutely obsessed with The Civil Wars. They are understated, heart-felt, and lovely. In light of their delightfully folksy sound, I have felt the desire to loosely braid my hair and shop exclusively at Anthroplogie for boho knits and handmade jewelery while sipping jasmine tea and contemplating a solo roadtrip to Vermont.
Cut to just a few months back, during which time I rarely deviated from the 1940s station (big ups to satellite radio). I found myself sporting meticulous chignons, red nails, pearls, and feeling the need to smoke cigarettes and demurely insist upon soft lighting wherever I went. (Is that really so much for a lady to ask for? I mean, really.)
During periods of binging on the likes of The Smiths, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, etc., you'll likely find me living in hoodies and Chucks with crazy unkempt hair, wearing a bored expression on my face and more eye makeup than makes sense for a weekday afternoon.
So does this make me a poser? Am I simply a sponge for the aesthetic connotations of a given sound/band/genre? Hard to say. But I suppose there are worse things to be inspired by than the loveliness that is music. Like socialites.
*Ill-advised in that Mom got a wicked leg cramp and I flailed my neck right out of whack. Yeah, we don't mess around when busting a move.