Sometimes when I start up my car the music is so loud that I have to yell, “Damned kids!!!”
But it’s just me. There are no kids.
Some songs — by their nature — need to be listened to at full blast. “Paranoid” by Black Sabbath. “Born to Be Wild” by Steppenwolf. ” “Anarchy in the UK” by the Sex Pistols (or anything else by the Sex Pistols, but “Holidays in the Sun” I find makes me so happy that I might endanger my car’s speakers). Anything by the Ramones or Dead Kennedys. Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life.” “Master of Puppets” by Metallica. My list of loud songs is long and spans decades. And I sing along which adds a dimension of volume and horror you don’t want to imagine.
I’ve been married a few times. My first husband — whom I married when I was 20 — and I didn’t get along very well. We couldn’t communicate with each other, a combination of not knowing how and not knowing why. One day I came home to find he’d thrown all my Steppenwolf albums in the dumpster. “There’s more to life,” he said, “than a 20 minute drum solo.”
“Yeah? Well, what, for example?” He had no answer and I dug out my albums, but the nails were being rapidly pounded into the coffin of a very bad marriage.
It’s an interesting (true) fact that I paid for my divorce from him with my collection of Rolling Stones albums which was, apparently, staggeringly good. The lawyer who represented me in my divorce was the assistant dean of the University of Denver College of Law. I got that as a bonus for working there, I guess.
You might be thinking this loud music made it hard for me and my various spouses to talk to each other but that wasn’t the case. This is a CAR thing. I drove on bad brakes for months without knowing it because the music was so loud I didn’t hear them squealing.