I grew up in a household where music reigned. None of us were particularly musically inclined, though my mom did sing in the church choir and once played the clarinet. However, the images of me curled up on the old, black leather sofa with my dad's gigantic headphones on make me smile. I remember dancing on my dad's feet or watching him play air guitar when he rocked out to Black Sabbath, Cream or Eric Claptop. My mom listened to Simon & Garfunkel, Conway Twitty and Alabama. I lapped it all up - my first 45 was Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" and I vividly remember my Shaun Cassidy album and doll, as well as the giant pic of Barbara Mandrell I had. My taste was, and still is, quite eclectic.
Music has always been there for me. There was a period of time when I listened to classical music on public radio as I went to sleep, the dance offs I'd have with my friends at their houses, the endless school dances that I went to despite the fact that I never really fit into any real group, singing in chorus and the church choir and the obligatory singing at the top of my lungs when I'm alone in the car.
Music moves me. It can make me cry, it can make me bounce around the room, it can help me express myself when words fail me and I need to borrow song lyrics to do so.
Music has gotten me through some rather rough spots in my life. Hearing Pearl Jam's "Deep" and Tori Amos's "Me and a Gun" helped me face my darkest moments. Simon & Garfunkel's "Cecilia" never fails to make me cop around the room. Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" makes me smile and weep at the same time. "Head Like a Hole" was an anthem during college, dealing with ignorance and apathy.
When I can't create, I turn to music. I can't paint in a quiet room. Give me a glass of wine, some music and I'll grab a canvas.