MORNING, chirrups the editor as we wrestle each other for the office revolving door on Monday, simultaneously untangling headphones from ears and dismantling dripping umbrellas while doing the “You first”, “No you”, “No, really ...” tango.
“What were you listening to?” he asks once we stumble into the warm embrace of the mother ship. An innocent enough question, really. Small talk to take us through to the next set of security-controlled revolving doors. But I’m caught unawares, a rabbit in the headlights. Do I fess up? Admit that, actually, I was at that very moment singing my heart out (at least in my head) to that classic Cher tune Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. All that’s missing is the fishnet body stocking and the Romany caravan (thanks to the rain, I’m already rocking the big hair look like it’s 1971). In my defence, it’s part of my karaoke megamix (which also includes, since you ask, Britney’s Hit Me Baby One More Time, Heart’s Alone and a fantastic rendition of Rick Springfield’s Jessie’s Girl – complete with air guitar solo if you ask nicely). Unashamedly cheesy. No one should take themselves too seriously at karaoke.
On my iPod I have a running playlist (made up almost exclusively of Faithless, The Prodigy and David Guetta 20-minute remixes) and my falling-asleep-on-the-train playlist (Lady Antebellum, Adele, Minnie Riperton, a little bit of Judie Tzuke). Then there are assorted others (Bowie, Kate Bush, Nirvana, Florence, Madge). Throw them all together and it’s a varied old assortment, something for everyone, but it’s not the sort of soundtrack I let everyone hear. Lord no.
What I really need is a ‘for public consumption’ playlist. For when a new acquaintance asks what music I’m into and I can casually flick through those obscure dance acts and you-haven’t-heard-of-them-yet-but-you-will-soon singer-songwriters that display an encyclopaedic knowledge of what’s hip and happening and down with the kids on the street. Man. Or for when I’m at an impromptu party and someone says, “Right, let’s get some music on – who’s got an iPod?”
Cough. Not me, that’s for sure. I’ll be taking that little Carly Rae Jepsen number to the grave, thank you very much. Not to mention that Foreigner track I downloaded “for a joke”. Pat Benatar? Glee? For the love of God. You need a strong stomach – and a working knowledge of 1980s soft rock – before you tackle the dark recesses of my iPod.
The editor must notice my hesitation, so I mumble something I think might pass muster from the more recent downloads of phat and groovy happenin’ choons (whatever the heck that means). “That could have been embarrassing,” I laugh nervously.
“Could have been some hellish power ballad,” he chuckles. “Or Cher.”
Gulp. “So, what about you?”
He looks suddenly sheepish and for a moment we share the shame.
“Um ... Genesis,” he almost whispers.
There should be a support group for this kind of thing.