Would You Have Sex to a Portishead Record?
The other day I was reading Public Service Announcement, a piece from Beth Lisick’s Yokohama Threeway. It opens with the line, “DON’T HAVE SEX TO A PORTISHEAD RECORD,” and cautions the reader against boning people who have a sex soundtrack – music they’ve selected specifically for banging. I spit up my Swedish berries because just the night before I told someone that Dummy was a good fuck record More About Cheap Swiss Replica: replica watches.
How damn obvious is THAT? Why didn’t I just say Barry White?
Having a sex record is the same as a rose petal trail to the bed. It’s the same as inviting her into your lair with the lights low and candles high. Feeding her chocolate or, like, goat cheese. Waiting for that perfect pouncing moment while Beth Gibbons releases the first few lines of Glory Box.
Yes. SOME PEOPLE BEHAVE THIS WAY. And maybe you’re one of them.
Do you remember Lovage? It was Mike Patton, Dan the Automator and Kid Koala, and they titled their album, Music to Make Love to Your Old Lady By. The whole thing is a play on sex records. But I have banged to this album and so have all of my friends.
When I was 20ish, I used to hang out with these Patton nerds. The kind who stand unmoving behind you at a Fantomas show, thoughtfully stroking their neckbeards. There was one guy I kind of liked, and he kind of liked me too. I would go over to his house and he’d want to drink peach schnapps, play Risk and talk about Disco Volante… at length! One time he invited me over to watch Ken Park. After the movie, he put on Lovage and we got downnnn.
…I never saw him after that. Because he was totally THAT guy. One part schnapps, two parts Lovage. Oh, and another part Harmony Korine-penned teen orgy flick. That was his formula. And just because you won’t find it in Cosmo, doesn’t make it any less cheap. It’s a seduction script. A boner BUTCHER.
What about music to love your old lady by? Have you ever had a love song? I remember sitting around with an old boyfriend, our heads together, going, “What’s our song?” We must have one. A panic. And then there were the inevitable disagreements. He thinks it should be Van Morrison’s Warm Love and I want it to be that Marilyn Manson cover of I Put a Spell on You. And that’s probably why we called it quits.
I have music for all of my most salient moments. Hole for puberty. Soundgarden for suicide. Slayer’s Show No Mercy for party. Trainspotting, Lost Highway, Pulp Fiction, Easy Rider. I love a good soundtrack. But the list can’t stop there. It can’t ever stop. Not until you’re dead, and the credits roll out every filthy player in your torrid little tale.
Sometimes I even get other people’s songs stuck in my rotation. Luna by Smashing Pumpkins will always remind me of an ex-boyfriend and his girlfriend before me. That was their song. And now whenever I hear it, I think about that story he told me about when they went to a barn dance in the country. He pulled her away from the party, out to the grassy hill, under a tree. She took her dress off and gave him head on all fours, her bovine breasts hanging like udders against the angry embers of a setting sun.
Some details get lodged so far in my brain I could never shake them out. Music, the hammer that drove them in there.