You ever have one of those songs that just turns you on no matter how many times you play it? I have a number of them on respective mix CD’s for when I need to conjure certain powers, like my “Going Out” Mix or my “Pissed and Meaning It” Mix or my “Sad Because it’s not the 90’s Anymore” Mix or my “Drag Queen” Mix or my “Going Onstage” Mix (that one’s old).
However, (and I’ve said it before about this song) I don’t know exactly what mix CD to put this one particular song on, and I don’t even freaking like the band, so I don’t want to run out and buy any of their stuff (and I’ve even seen them live), but every time I hear Death Cab for Cutie’s “I Will Posess Your Heart”, I sort of lose my mind.
I don’t necessarily like the lyrics, but the music is amazing. The wandering, chaotically melodic piano crashes, the strong-yet-lackadaisical bass that cockily seduces my erongenous areas with boyish playfulness, the glistening guitar notes that remind me of hungover stars on New Years Night… damn, it gets me every time.
… I listen to it on repeat and imagine myself walking through the streets of Chicago in slow motion, my hair blown back by the pounding, freezing gusts that come off the Wabash and sewer grates leaking steam that frames and absorbs my silhouette. I pull my collar around my neck as I walk past a quartet sharing a jazz cigarette and make eyes at the slightly younger bass player, who happens to wear suspenders without a hint of irony.
… I imagine myself primping for my lover in an elegant Parisian boudoir, powder billowing off the puff I use to dab at my chest and floating vicariously out the window into the French evening. I am wearing satin lingerie trimmed with hand-stitched lace that I have put on with care under a vintage silk robe that hangs over the seat of my vanity’s tiny stool. My kitten heels seduce the floor as I walk over to the chaise to gaze out over the city and sip champagne just before he breezes through the door and takes me, my glass shattering as it smashes on the floor.
… I imagine I am riding through the fiery autmnal leaves of the New England countryside in my own classic roadster, wearing only large sunglasses, a blazing red satin cocktail dress that hugs my curves as tightly as I’m hugging the road’s, and diamond-encrusted stilettos that are both elegant and forceful as they alternate pumping the clutch and the gas. My pelvis tightens as I breeze through the winding turns, careful not to careen too far and laughing wickedly as I balance the eternal rush between thrill and danger.
… I imagine I’m a painter working in a studio atop a city skyscraper, painting on canvases the curves of beautiful women who are lounging around the loft while smoking and eating tropical fruit amidst swirls of incense. I am covered in splotches of paint, despite wearing an apron over my grey t-shirt and jeans and my hair and hygiene are a disaster from hours of relentless work. Still, I splash paint across my easel as the bassline pulses around me, driving me forward and the gals giggle and chatter amongst themselves, imploring me to come and discuss literature and art and sex and life with them. Instead, I smile and drag an exhausted forearm across my forehead, while patiently instructing them into their next poses and giggling at the pieces of pineapple they jokingly fling in my direction.
I could go on, but I really should get back to my life here. Looks like it’s back to late-90’s chick rock for me for a while…