Musical musings

One is a couple debating who loves the other more.

One is a couple arguing (actually, I LOVE an arguing couple. They are my sport; I listen with popcorn).

And the third is anyone, anyone at all, discussing "what music they're into".

I've always had a strong sensibility of ick where this topic is concerned, but it was only yesterday I realised the full extent of the aversion.

I was sitting on a replacement bus service from Three Bridges to Brighton.

A middle-aged man in a tweed blazer struck up a conversation with a vaguely trendy, young "fella-me-lad" about music.

It was a delicious example of why these conversations are hideous. Tweed Man got stuck in with the obvious question: "So, what sort of music are you into?" Yeuch.

"Oh," Young Fella-me-lad pondered. "I like a bit of everything, really'¦"

Of course you do! WE ALL DO. It's characteristic of the human race, you fool, except maybe for those who live entirely on Marmite.

"Mainly indie rock," he continued.

"Some reggae'¦ a bit of hip-hop'¦ folk'¦ blues'¦" Then he delivered the killer line.

"I like anything with a bit of originality, really. That's what I mainly look for." IS IT?

"Odd, because last I looked, the rest of the music-buying public were crying out for songs that sounded exactly the same as the last one they listened to.

"More of the same!" they plead from the aisles in HMV.

"For pity's sake, nothing ORIGINAL, heaven forbid'¦"

Of course, I'm being cruel. Young Fella-me-lad probably couldn't help giving those insipid answers, because they are programmed into all of us.

We are all meant to say we "like a bit of everything", just as we are all meant to say that we "enjoy travelling" and loved Slumdog Millionaire.

It just goes to show the music conversation is a redundant format.

It should be replaced with something much more effective, like just swapping iPods, or playing Boff, Marry, Kill '“ Paul Simon, Prince, Pete Doherty.

Or just shutting the heck up and looking at each other's shoes.

You can tell 80 per cent of a person's music taste just by looking at their shoes, after all.

So TM and YFM carried on with their conversation in the traditional manner.

TM raved about Arcade Fire.

YFM rambled on about being big on '60s guitar, "like Hendrix. And'¦ well, y'know, Hendrix."

There was a particularly brilliant segment where TM tried to explain to YFM who Harry Nilsson was, singing I Can't Live (if Living is Without You), then spent five minutes trying to remember who covered it in the '90s.

By this point, I was yearning to turn round and shriek "it was Mariah Carey, you bonehead, just BE QUIET and let me off this hellwagon!" before throwing a shoe through the back window.

The conversation then pootled on through Britpop, early Bowie versus late Bowie, how exactly one should categorise Talking Heads, and then, just outside Lewes, ended up on John Peel.

"I loved John Peel," said TM.

"So did I," said YFM.

"SO DID EVERYBODY," the bus silently screamed back.

We pulled into Brighton.

Tweed Man and Young Fella-me-lad moved on to a pub to discuss music some more.

What have we learned here, kids?

That rail replacement buses make my nerves a little fraught.

And that Talking Heads can't be categorised, and that is no bad thing.

The World of Lauren Bravo is published in the Herald and Gazette series every Thursday.

-------------------------------------

Click here for more Lauren Bravo.

Where are you? Add your pin to the Herald's international readers' map by clicking here.

Email the Herald: [email protected]

Click here for the Herald staff directory.

Want to read this page in French, German, Spanish, Polish, Portuguese, Urdu or 48 other languages? click here for Google translate.