1 March 2015
Dear restaurants, cafés, bars, pubs – dear St Andrews. I pronounce you guilty of third degree cacophony. My doleful query remains: Why must I unceasingly be subjected to the agonizing, and abasing, torture of the same songs played in loops?
Although I’m well aware that people are trying to unctuously appeal to the general public, my sanity is trickling off my cerebrum like rainwater blown off a leaf by a malicious amplifier. A pink amplifier covered in glitter with words like “swag” and “#tbt” on it. Each time Sam Smith gets blasted into my blighted eardrums, my insides perish. I feel like an expired apricot with no authority. It’s not because these songs are awful, it’s because I spend at least four hours in a café every day, and no matter where I go I find myself pleading: “But what if I do want to make it about the treble? What if that’s what I really want, Meghan?”
This weekend I attended a Computer Science Hackathon, and even in the profundities of the Jack Cole building on a Saturday night at 11 pm, I found myself weighing the pros and cons of being Taylor Swift’s intense lover affaire. Would she write a lachrymose song about me too, and would I have to listen to it everyday?
Sure, I could go home, but considering that my flatmates’ doors are never ajar (comic relief), I’m pretty sure that the chance of me snoozing away placidly to the sounds of Shake It Off like the entirety of last semester would behighly unlikely. It’s also quite unhelpful that all of the songs being played are named something slightly reprehensible like: Stay With Me, All of Me, None of Me, Some of Me, Part of Me, Half of Me, All of You, [Insert verb/noun/pronoun] [Insert preposition] Me…
I concur; the music is catchy, but the vapid lyrics don’t absolve the upbeat melody. It’s not like “But that’s just how I feel (ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh ooh), That’s just how I feel (ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh ooh), That’s just how I feel” is especially cryptic or profound. Or am I wrong?