My Salsa Makes All the Pretty Girls Want to Dance

There. I did it. I used a D12 lyric as the title of this blog, but more importantly, that means I’ve done something more degrading than what I did last night. Last night, I danced the salsa.

I don’t mean this to demean the entire salsa-dancing population of the world. I only mean to highlight how comically poor I am at ballroom dancing. I have all the coordination and elegance of a giraffe hopped up on speed and bound by Saran wrap. (I have it on good scientific authority that giraffes are not good at salsa dancing, let alone those trapped by cling wrap and using hard drugs)

Thus, when a coworker I’ve been meaning to catch up with invited me to go salsa dancing with her and a friend yesterday, I was absolutely sure she was joking. I was wrong.

Some background: I am a 6’3”, 250-pound white dude. I played basketball in high school, but I’ve only recently started trying to get myself back into shape after encountering a few personal fitness speed bumps at college. My best dancing performance was beating this on medium difficulty my junior year of high school.

Yet about nine hours after her original invitation, there I was, in a car headed towards Philly, about to go salsa dancing. God help us all.

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Brasil, a club in Old City, Philadelphia right near the Delaware River, has two levels. The ground floor has a traditional nightclub feel with a raised dance floor, bar, lounge chairs and all the flashing neon lights you could ask for. The upper level is, for all intents and purposes, a small dance studio with your grandfather’s mini bar attached to it. They offer $3 Coronas and margaritas at the bar on Wednesday lesson nights; because when you’re about to learn to do something you’ve had virtually no experience doing, why not try it after hitting the sauce?

$5 got us in for the lesson. After a round of drinks, Sonja, our dance instructor, called the 36 or so dancers in to begin, as another half dozen folks remained at Grandpa’s bar and preemptively began to chuckle at our impending misfortune.

The first aspect of dancing I remembered I hated were the mirrors. The mirrors in a dance studio obviously serve to show you how you’re moving in relation to the instructor and pinpoint where you’re going wrong. It also reminds me what I look like while trying to do anything gracefully. I could hear my own notoriously malicious subconscious ridiculing me: “Nice moves, milky! You learn that move playing with your Skip It last week? Hey, remember when your waist could fit into one of those legholes on your jeans? I think I saw a shop selling secondhand Spanx on the way over here. You should scope it out! I had sex with your wife last night!” (My subconscious doesn’t know I’m not married)

We started with “basic step.” Sonja did the step three times before moving on to the next step. The problem was, it usually took me until the third time to figure out what she was doing anyway. By the time I finally got around to trying it myself, she would shout, “Okay, now Suzy Q’s!” and I’d be left stumbling into the next move.

After going through eight or nine steps at what seemed to me like warp speed (naturally, everyone in my immediate area seemed to know exactly what they were doing), Sonja called out to her assistant Jamie to hit the music. Salsa music blared out the speakers of the studio as Sonja began shouting out the names of the next step to do, like I had a snowball’s chance in hell of remembering the actual steps, let alone their goddamn NAMES.

The fact that even Sonja’s bright voice couldn’t rise above the music made it nigh impossible for me to put forth anything greater than Garfield tap dancing on his fence as I tried to figure out what was going on. The only two sounds I could hear above the music were Sonja occasionally shouting “Wooooo!” to remind us she was having fun and God’s laughter as he watched me struggle. “Wow, I’ve created some crappy dancers in My day, but I must have let one of the interns work on you, buddy! If I’d known people could be this bad at dancing, I'd have banned it for good centuries ago! I had sex with your wife last night!" (God doesn't pay close attention either, I guess)

After our warmups, we got in a circle and began learning our actual dance for the night. Men lined up on the inside of the circle, women on the outside rotating every minute or so to change up our dance partners. I started with my friend from work, then her friend, then a long line of strangers. It was fun dancing with people of all sizes and experience levels – the more seasoned dancers would politely point out how I should stop taking steps as if I’m doing lunges and just make short, barely-noticeable steps.

About 10 minutes in, a blonde woman in her early to mid 30s rotated to me and we began setting up to dance when she shot a glance to someone to her right and hissed “What?” I ignored this until it happened three more times and I couldn’t help but peek over. A similarly aged man in a dress shirt and slacks is looking at her with an expression that could be best described as half appalled and half “Moooooom, when’s it gonna be myyyytuuuurrrrn?” Either this man was emotionally shattered at the mere prospect of his wife/girlfriend dancing with anyone other than him, or he was simply having the most miserable time I’ve ever seen anyone have doing anything ever.

At last, after about a minute of these grade school-level shenanigans, the woman took my hand, led me over to where her man was, and asked the woman he was currently paired with if they could swap. Sonja, sensing trouble, asked if there was a problem.

“He only wants to dance with me,” the blonde woman answered. “I know, I know,” she added, seeing Sonja’s puzzled look. For the rest of the night, the rest of the group rotated while Insecure Man and Humiliated Woman awkwardly shuffled along in the corner. The only possible scenario I could imagine where the man would get that visibly upset would be if:

a. He hated dancing/socializing, AND

b. His wife loved dancing, AND

c. His wife convinced him to go by promising she’d only dance with him

If that’s the case, however, it would have been far better for the gentleman to simply leave and engage in an activity better suited to his personality, like kicking the s*** out of a homeless guy.

As the night went on, I began getting the hang of things, relatively speaking. I even learned to “lead” my partner into our planned moves, which was good because Sonja specifically instructed the woman not to go along with the planned move unless her male partner “firmly” led them into it. There’s nothing worse than moving on to what you believe is the next step, only to see your partner stop moving because they’ve determined you’re not being forceful enough. (Or that you’re dead wrong about what the next step is and have no clue)

“Ba-sic step, ba-sic step, ba-sic LIFT, turn the girl…back and turn, one two three, ba-sic step, ba-sic shake…” Midway through, there are three sets where the man simply rocks back and forth while the woman alternates between “flashy” moves such as hip-shaking, body rolls or lunges.

The last move was the trickiest for the men, though, particularly enormous dudes like me. The move required holding my partner’s hands while I spun underneath our arms, holding on to her hands the whole time. Afterwards, we’d smoothly release our grips while doing the basic step and return to form. If I’m describing this terribly, it’s because I was also terrible at doing it.

Eventually, the music started and the rotations began again. With each new partner, I grew more relaxed and more comfortable with each new move (giggity). Finally, Sonja called “Last rotation!” This was my last chance to put everything together, including that tough new spin.

Problem was, no one rotated to me. The men to my left and right had a new partner; I didn’t. Somewhere along the line, the rotation chain got jumbled up.

“Five, six…” Sonja counted off to begin the dance. At “six,” a small middle-aged woman rushed up to me from the left and snatched my hand, glaring as if her showing up two seconds before we were supposed to start was my fault.

A more experienced dancer might have been able to go with the flow and make that work. I didn’t. I muffed up my steps six ways to Sunday. Thbbbbbbt.

My assumption is that all dance lessons eventually lead to this 

After the lesson came open dancing. I grabbed a beer and watched the rest of the group, my two friends included, dance with the other regulars for fun. Almost out of a high school movie, men swept by woman standing alone, asking for a dance and leading them to the floor, improvising the duration of their dance, the women following nearly to perfection. I’m not in that boat yet. It’s not for lack of confidence; I’m just not going to ruin a woman’s night by wooing her into a dance, then spending five minutes mangling her toes and sending her crashing into other dancers.

Did I learn anything from trying something out of my comfort zone? Sure. Vans are terrible shoes to dance in, and some nightclub bouncers are more eager to pat you down than others. (I think I saw the guard outside Brasil do a small fist-pump when he saw me, the first dude in about 3 minutes, walk up to the door).

I’ve always been a talker, though. My preferred method of communication with the fairer sex, or just my friends, is verbal, not physical. Dance halls or clubs pumping in heavy bass beats or even classic ballroom music don’t cater to my strengths. I’m out of my element. I need a bar or a café or a house with a little background music. That’s my Rafael Nadal on clay.

It wouldn’t hurt to improve my dancing, though. As a way of letting loose and getting a little workout in, it could be great once I learn what the hell I’m doing. And after all, I’m still not too old to pursue my NFL career yet. Anything could help.

Plaid, Pencils, Post-Its, and Pantyhose

Perhaps a less vague title for this post would be "How I Spent Over $50 at Target on Frivolous Necessities," but I liked the poetic fun of the alliteration better than the apparent contradiction. I am baffled by how my seemingly minimal purchases brought me up to a grand $52.86-- so much so that I dug my receipt out of the wastebasket last night almost immediately after putting it there in order to add the prices and calculate the sales tax. How did this happen?! I'm not a cheapskate (although my sister frequently jokes that when I open my wallet moths fly out). I'm just practical. This is my justification for these apparently expensive items I deemed necessary.

Tartan Love

Plaid Scarf for $14.99: Okay, this was NOT a necessity. I have scarves. I own a few of the fancy ones women wear with cardigans or dresses (and occasionally with jeans), and I knit my own for the winter. This, however, was navy blue and hunter green plaid tartan, which is my absolute favorite plaid. It was sort of an impulse buy-- I wasn't looking for it, but there it was in all its loveliness. Oh well. It's not like I won't wear it.

Note the jet-packy thing.

Pencils for $2.29: In my defense, it was a two-pack. These are not any pencils. These are awesome Velocity mechanical pencils with a cushioned grip, the claim that the tip won't break off if you press too hard, and a little cap for the erasers. Plus they came with this nifty jet-pack looking container with spare erasers in one side and spare lead in the other. I borrowed one the other night and deemed them worthy of adding to my heart-printed mug of writing utensils. Not enough people appreciate the value of a good pen or pencil nowadays. Well, I do.

See? They stick ANYWHERE.

Post-Its for $6.09: Admittedly, this is a little steep for some paper. But! They come in a variety of neon colors with a BONUS! notepad, they're twice the size of regular lame old post-its, and they're lined. Try and say that isn't cool as far as paper products go. I'm a little bit of a nerd (I like school supplies, the smell of crayons, reading, and grammar (okay, a lot a bit of a nerd)) but these were necessary. I use them when I'm sending something to somebody's mailbox at school, to take notes on a chapter or scholarly journal as a reminder of what it's about, etc.

Fun tights!

Pantyhose for $28.90: Sounds ridiculous. How about if I say I got five pair? I still think it's absurd, but they were on CLEARANCE and the cheapest regular price I saw was $12.00 and the most expensive around $25 a pair. I feel like a 1950s housewife who washes and saves her pantyhose because they're just too expensive to wear once and throw out. I got some nice ones: cute design-y ones in grey and black, purple ones, navy ones, and hunter green ones (to match the scarf?). This happened because I don't wear dress pants when I get dressed up. If I'm teaching I can't be freezing to death in the middle of winter because I'm wearing a dress. However, they don't make pants for women who are 5'1". I always end up tripping over them because they're too long (I don't do heels either) or they're weird and short when I sit down so I give up and do strictly dresses. Hence the frivolous necessity of my tights-- why would I be cold if I don't have to?

Want!

So there it is. I saw a Crayola notebook with a pen that changes color on the page, but I draw the line at $5 for a tiny notepad-- no matter how intriguing that color-changing pen is.

In Defense of Listening To Video Game Music While Not Playing Video Games

This is not going to be a blog exclusively devoted to music, but a conversation I had with the co-writer of this blog earlier tonight inspired this post...

About two months before I started college, I received a Facebook message/friend request from someone that said, “Sup? I guess we’re roommates.” He’d apparently received his letter a day or two before me. Intrigued, I accepted and scoped out his profile like a good little high school kid headed to a college 300 miles away from home should.

Several aspects of his profile stood out. First was the white “pimp” suit he wore in one of his prom photos. The next was the motorcycle he rode in several other pictures. The third was his list of “likes and interests:” video games (awesome), anime (an obsession I’d fallen out of love with a year or two prior), hip-hop (an obsession I’d fallen out of pretty much upon my conception between the whitest pair of parents in mankind’s history) and trance music.

Admittedly, I had no clue what trance music was. At all. I imagined a tripped-out alternative to techno, a genre I loved around the age of 11, when I believed every single electronica song sounded like the stuff on ESPN Jock Jams. In short, 18-year old Matt considered trance music to be frightening and stayed away from it.

My roommate and I got along very well, though, and thoroughly enjoyed freshman year (perhaps a little too much). Sometime afterwards, after learning about my fondness for so-called old-school games such as Sonic the Hedgehog, Shining Force, Sonic the Hedgehog, Street Fighter, Sonic the Hedgehog and, of course, Sonic the Hedgehog, he pointed me to OCRemix.org, a site for those who worship at the twin alters of music composition and classic gaming to both produce and download remixes of video game music, ranging from the most well-known games of all time to "they only made a dozen copies of this game and six of them are sitting at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean" levels of obscurity.

It started innocently enough. A few techno Sonic remixes here, a heavy metal Mega Man tune there, and my fix would be satisfied. But soon after I graduated college, for whatever reason, I became insatiable. Instead of cranking my usual selection of dude rock, my mornings of cleaning/running errands would be backed by a soundtrack of Metroid and Legend of Legaia (a game that I have still not played to this day – but the background music from the Village of Jeremi is so good!). I’d stagger to work some days after downloading .zip files of menu music until the wee hours of the morning. 

Rock remixes, pulsating trance remixes, piano ballad rewrites; it didn’t matter. It even turned me onto electronica and trance music as a whole - I downloaded a ton of free trance music online and threw it on the video game mix because it sounded similar, and I played the bridge from Enter Shikari's "Gap in the Fence" on repeat enough to drive the average human insane, simply because it reminded me of a racing game I used to play.

I’d purchased licensed music I’d heard on video games before (my first “real” CD was Andrew W.K.’s “I Get Wet,” which I’d heard first on a Madden game), but this was a whole ‘nother animal. I wasn’t proud of what I was turning into. I’d try to hide my obsession – nay, addiction – from my friends and family. Occasionally, my roommate (not the one above, but my roommate after college) would come home and ask, “Is that Legend of Zelda music playing on your laptop?” to which I’d respond, “NO NOT AT ALL LOOK AT HOW CLEAN THESE DISHES ARE THAT I’VE WASHED AND NOT MY COMPUTER.”

It was too difficult for me to stop. You know how it is. Sometimes, you’re at a party with a few friends, you’re enjoying a few drinks when someone takes you up to the coat room upstairs where everyone’s…you know…listening to video game music.

"That f***ing horse is gonna come NOW." (pic from this site)

Now, while I have a number of idiosyncrasies like anyone else, I consider myself to be a relatively normal guy. I enjoy watching/playing sports, cracking open a cold beer, sinking my teeth into well-made burger, good-looking women, and hanging out with friends. Why, then, am I drawn to the bleeps and bloops of OCRemix and other sites like Greek ships to the sirens? (HISTORY)

Two reasons:

•  They give you space to think. Because most of the remixes are derived from what essentially amounts to background music, seldom do they include singing that goes beyond choral overtones or “sha ba doo wops,” and even more infrequently are there lyrics (because when video game nerds try to write original lyrics, they often turn into stuff like this and this). I love turning on my video game playlist when I’m working or have a lot on my mind because it provides…well, background music; but souped-up, super geeky background music. It doesn't encourage me to sing along like most of my favorite songs, so I can relax, and even if the remix is experimental or alternative in nature, the melody itself is familiar and doesn’t knock your train of thought off the rails.
• Speaking of familiarity, that brings me to my next reason: nostalgia. My mother hated the idea of video games in the house, but once a year when I was young (around 5-8 years old), my brother and I were allowed to rent a video game system and a couple games for a week to play at home. It was like teasing us with one single M&M, but then never sniffing another one for months. So when my uncle gave us his Sega Genesis as a gift after he’d purchased a magical mind-melting machine called a “PlayStation,” it was like backing a Brinks truck of M&M’s up the driveway of Chez Kasznel. We played and played until we burned ourselves out on video games. It wasn’t that we were unhealthily addicted to the games – we still did the usual kid stuff like play basketball and let wild animals in the house – but we couldn’t believe we finally had video games for ourselves! (A few years later, I earned us a Nintendo 64 as a Christmas gift by teaching my brother to read a book. INCENTIVES)

The video game remixes remind me of days when my brother and I would both have off from school, but pouring rain kept us inside. We’d take all the blankets from our bedrooms and take them downstairs, pour ourselves a bowl of Cap’n Crunch or two, and alternate between playing derivatives of “Fort” (rules: throw stuffed animals at each other from across the room to wreck the other’s “fort.” No one ever wins and no one ever stops playing because why in the world would you want to???) and advancing as far as we could in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the Power Rangers game, or Sonic the Hedgehog 2.

Video game music doesn’t just remind me of strictly video games, though. It reminds me of the den at Township Line Road, the house I lived in for nearly 16 years, where we’d play those games, or have sleepovers and watch home movies. It reminds me of a trip I took to Ocean City, MD with my friend and his family, where I brought a CD with some songs from a computer game I enjoyed to listen to. (My friend countered with his new Limp Bizkit CD, but hey, we all make mistakes). It reminds me of afternoons at an old friend’s house when I was around 10, where we’d spend the whole day in his pool, dry off, and watch movies and play Nintendo 64 on his (at the time) enormous television.

That combination of mind-emptying comfort and wistfulness gets me to flip the radio off from time to time and listen to remixes on car rides to work, while writing/reading or simply mulling over a tough problem or an emotional moment. Some folks are comforted by a meal Mom used to make, a record they danced to at their senior prom, or simply a drive through their old neighborhood. For me, a couple Sonic the Hedgehog tracks by way of artists I know only by names such as GaMeBoX or The Cynic Project will do the trick. And for those of you who put items like this on your wish list, it might work for you, too.

If We Can Stay Here Long Enough...

Like Matt already mentioned, the primary goal of this blog is to still be writing it a few months from now. I used to be an avid writer-- mostly of my own life stories in everything from purple composition books to looseleaf sheets tied together with ribbons (yes, this happened). Bins under my bed filled with old notebooks and picture-stories from before I could write. That sort of thing.

Then college happened.

I decided to write on a blog, assuming it had to be easier to manage since I was always on my computer doing some article or thesis anyway-- and this is after I was adamant about never starting a blog because technology detracts from the beauty and privacy that is pen and paper. Obviously I was desperate. So, I started my personal blog, A More Likely Story. I had all these fantastic ideas I wanted to share with my feeble readership, but as one of the greatest minds of the century said, "Life happens when you're busy making other plans." Regular contributor to Big K Media became...hmm, 4-5 posts? And then I started a blog for my Literature & Pedagogy class that I enjoyed writing so much that I was determined to keep it going. Good one.

Thus here I am, trying to refine my writing skills and do something I'm passionate about but never seem to have nearly enough time for (add that to reading, playing guitar, painting, running...).

I don't want to niche us immediately as "that blog about music" but I got a mix CD for my birthday, and while the whole thing is pretty awesome, I've become slightly obsessed with one in particular: "Bloody Mary" by the Silver Sun Pickups.

Essentially, there's nothing for me to dislike about this song. I saw Silver Sun Pickups live a little over two years ago, and they were absolutely amazing. I always figured that Brian Aubert (the lead singer) used some sort of studio effect to make his voice sound the way it does-- he doesn't. Listening to them live is like listening to them through headphones, except you can see them dancing and twisting across the stage while they play. So that's reason one.

Second, the game "Bloody Mary" holds significance for me because of how frequently I played it as a child. I've always loved ghost stories, haunted houses, scary movies, Halloween. The idea of conjuring old Mary up from the depths of a mirror (freaky objects in and of themselves) was too delightfully scary not to take part in-- or force my sister and cousins to stand in a dark bathroom with me, all squeezing fingernails into one another's palms as we squeamishly chanted "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary..." and then flipped the lights on and ran out, only to do it again immediately.

Aubert's voice combines with the vocal talents of bassist Nikki Monninger to form this ethereal sound that loans itself perfectly to the quality of a song entitled "Bloody Mary," and the first time I heard it I couldn't help thinking of my childhood. Listening to it as much as I have in the past week brings out the lit geek in me and has me analyzing the lyrics, trying to determine the story behind it. Is he singing to a spouse who was abused as a child? Speaking to Bloody Mary? Is it sexual? Is he talking to his own image in the mirror? No idea.

That's the fun part about music-- there are always multiple ways to decipher lyrics and it ends up depending on how you're feeling at a particular time. Music speaks to everyone and has a way of comforting us when closer human contact falls short. It lets us know that at some point, someone knew how we were feeling enough to write a song about it-- and that meaning is subject to change daily.

Let's Get Down to Business, or The Integrity of the Gaslight Anthem

I suppose this is to be a blog about music and me. Music and movies and books and me. General thoughts on life, and me. It all comes back to me. And of course, my esteemed colleague who will hopefully join us on this blog shortly (more on that later).

Considering I’ve laid out a very egotistical mission statement for this blog, and started it out with three fragments, I’m off to a rip-roaring start.

Normally this type of general interest blog starts with some sort of manifesto. “Here’s why I’m writing! Here’s my goal for writing! Here is a little bit about me!” *proceeds with 18 paragraphs about self*

I’m writing because I would like to write or speak for a living someday, and blogging seems like the most reasonable practice facility to hone at least part of that craft.

My goal for this blog is to still be writing it six months from now. 85 percent of small businesses fail after one year. My guess is that the success rate for blogs after one month is about the same. I started a website just after graduating college for my friends and I to write, broadcast, and photograph anything that piqued our interested. At our “peak,” we had a dozen regular contributors and fresh content rolling in daily. By month six, we had two writers and three-week lulls between new posts. Astonishingly, a website with no direction and no way of incentivizing its writers didn’t last long.

As for “a little bit about me,” I hope whoever stumbles upon this blog and reads on a semi-regular basis (I’m looking at you, half-dozen family members and three unfortunate strangers) can paint a picture of the type of person I am, or would like you to believe I am, based on what I write. If I can’t communicate as much to you, I’m probably out of my element anyway.

I’ll do my best to be genuine and candid. And speaking of being genuine and candid…

Segway! / Segue!

This summer, I finally had a chance to see The GaslightAnthem live after two years of friends telling me how much I’d like them – and two years of me nodding and saying “Yeah” with eyes glazed over. All I knew of the band was their native state (New Jersey) and the most common musical idol associated with their act (a fellow Jersey native whose name I will try to exclude for the sake of standing out from the crowd).

Without having heard a single song of theirs more than once before, I thoroughly enjoyed their set at the Orion Festival. The band packed an arena-ready sound into a tiny ball of punk ferocity that showed even in their slower, stomping numbers. Due to my awful hearing and our distance from the stage, it was difficult to understand most of lead singer Brian Fallon’s lyrics, though I caught the word “radio” once or 26 times.

A few weeks later, I was hooked on the noxious combination of speed, power and dramatics that saturated the band’s discography to date, Fallon’s throaty vocals matched by his affecting vignettes, Alex Rosamilla’s simple-yet-effective guitar leads mixing up what would otherwise have made for repetitive rhythm sections. While heartache by way of relationships constitutes most of his inspiration (watching the taillights of his wife’s car as she leaves, leaving a message for each of his ex-lovers with a friend should they come calling, promising to buy his love a coastal home someday so "we can sleep on the beach all night,"), Fallon’s retro imagery and passionate delivery make even the depressing seem kind of cool.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, then, to eventually read reviews essentially accusing the band of being disingenuous, implying the members don’t really feel the pain and bear the crosses their fans believe they do. In a music market where spectacle often means playing a character on stage, it was bound to happen. The band is compared so often to its idols that anything they do is simply a carbon copy of those prior greats, not an original work. (Some of those idols have received similar criticism to boot)

It’s a matter of perception, though. Today, public relations representatives, record labels, pro sports teams and whoever else has a vested interest in their image coach up all musicians and other public figures, even those at the bottom of the barrel. It’s such a common criticism of pop culture that even mentioning it is somewhat cliché.

Whether Brian Fallon and Co. truly feel the way they say they do on their albums will likely never surface. Even at their most candid, no musician who claims to put heart and soul into their craft will admit they stopped caring (unless they’ve really, really stopped caring).

What matters is what listeners derive from what they have to say, and the music they play. If you find Nicki Minaj’s schizophrenia speaks to you on some level, whose place is it to tell you it shouldn’t? If If the Gaslight Anthem fuzzes a few corners of their picture-perfect ‘50s blue-collar style, is it really worth dissecting for someone who feels like they’ve been born in the wrong decade?

This isn’t the equivalent of holding up a patriarchal figurewith a seamy side that put actual human beings in danger, or, as a lighter example, Gotham City holding up Harvey “Two-Face” Dent as a symbol of justice. It’s goddamn music. It means what you want it to mean.

I have a bad habit of reading every review I can about bands I love. In some ways, it was as if I hoped to gain confirmation that no, I’m not a lunkhead for liking what I do. I hope that, as I grow older, I shed this insecurity. Particularly because there is no way to quantify earnestness and sincerity, it’s up to the listener to derive as much earnestness and sincerity from a song as they so please. Even if it’s something as simple as growing nostalgic over a  bland little lyric like “Do you miss her right now?”

Until next time, when I hopefully won't devote as many words as I did to such a basic concept...

-Matt