Ghoul Doesn’t Understand Modern Music

Ghoul was able to endure most of what the nineties had to offer. Early grunge, industrial, and heavy rock where notably difficult to sell to Ghoul, as his music preferences stemmed from the softer side of the mid-sixties.

“You have to turn this off. Please,” requested Ghoul.

We sat on the couch in the living room, listening to my online radio station play random hits from the new millennium.

“Can’t deal with it, huh?”

A woman with the name of a common infant sound was singing about having a stern-face. Or something like that. I just tune this shit out, as I do everything else that comes from main stream radio. It was difficult to sit through the audible assault blasting from my speakers, yet well worth the displeasure to watch Ghoul stew in distress.

“If I wasn’t already dead, I’d want to die. Change it!”

“Alright. I’ll see what’s next.”

I wanted to exploit this sudden gift of power to see how far I could push Ghoul. There was no real reason other than what I saw on the internet this morning. I read something about ‘not wasting any opportunities that are advantageous to your personal well-being’….

“Jesus!” I said aloud.

“What’s that?” asked Ghoul.

“Nothing, nothing.”

This is embarrassing. I had meant for that to be said in my thoughts. Oh well. Wait—why is he looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face? Nope—nothing. Now where was I….

Jesus! I can’t believe I remembered all of that. I would be foolish to go against such sagely wisdom published from the oh-so reputable internet. I was bending over my keyboard and scrolling down my playlists until a guilty pleasure of mine revealed itself. An archive awaited: one containing the very best of techno, house, dance, and dub step. The song I had in mind consisted of a handful of computer generated sounds, all overlaying a cacophony of heart-palpitating noises that would surely vibrate the house.

“I think I have something you might like,” I said.

“My hopes are low.”

“This will surely rattle your bones. Here we go!”

I clicked the play button on the song and maxed the volume.

“Are you thinking about booking your own vacation this year?” asked the nasally voice from the speakers.

“Commercial,” I said.

“Finally, something that doesn’t suck.”

I muted the audio and waited, watching the second timer tick down in the lower corner of the video advertisement. Ghoul was starting to shift impatiently on the couch. He then stood and started to walk out of the living room.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you and your horrible music.”

“Give me thirty more seconds.”

“I don’t know if I can entertain this… this filth any longer. My musical preferences—which I may add are far superior than anything your generation will ever have—have been struck down with a mortal blow. The dismal sounds of today’s artists are appalling and I want nothing—

The advertisement stopped and the song began. I wasted no time and flung my mouse cursor to the volume bar, bringing the noise to one-hundred percent. An explosion of bass shot from my subwoofer. Ghoul braced onto the arm of the couch as if the blast was about to knock him over. Indescribable electronic sounds rose and fell in abrupt, nonsensical sequences in the background of the song.

The song was beautiful. I let myself go to embrace the abrupt urge to dance around the living with the beat; bobbing up and down, raising my hands to the ceiling. My sergeant in the Army reminded me daily that I would always lack rhythm, but that never stopped me from dancing. It felt so good to cut loose.

Time slipped away, and before I knew it, the song was over. I never once took a second to see Ghoul’s expression. There was something about Dub-Step that always hindered the sense of my immediate surroundings.

“What do you think?” I asked.

I still haven’t concluded on how he perspires, but there he was, oozing milky streams of undead sweat that soaked his shirt and the carpet below him. He was swaying, visibly exhausted. There was something new on his face—something beyond the sagging cheeks and decayed chin. It was a gruesome expression of joy that failed to conceal itself within Ghoul’s forced visage.

“I might need to hear that again… just so I can make an honest opinion.”

I hit replay and we danced the night away.

© Copyright John Potts Jr 2016 – 2017

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