As a musician, and one with sound-color synesthesia at that, experiencing beautiful music can be quite the adventure. So many Sunday afternoons of my childhood were spent lying on my back, enjoying the free fireworks show splashed across my ceiling, courtesy of the local classical station. I love tightly woven harmonies, especially in vocal music. They tower, stacked like rainbow lady fingers, the most gloriously delicious looking compacted ribbon river in existence. Multi-layered music is fascinating: in any given Stevie Wonder jam I can feast my senses on the lady finger harmonies hammock-holding the dancing melodic line over the bright flecks of rhythmic clapping and drumming; I always lose my breath during the vamp or instrumental solo because the color show is stunning.
However, it is nothing compared to the ecstasy of Debussy. Sweeping orchestral lines of lavender grace and mercy curve upward, bearing tender drops of clear piano elixir toward the sky.
Stimulating music can often get me into trouble when I am presented with the opportunity to meet one of the technicolor tapestry weavers in person, or more dangerously, to jam. Sounds with color and shape develop weight and thickness, texture and taste, until I am a girl on fire. Chocolate never had anything on a low-down dirty jam.