Every “man” is a musician, whether he is aware of it or not. His ability to play women like fiddles, cellos and any other stringed instrument that can be plucked and massaged is an innate gift that makes him a natural “virtuoso.” The notes he hits with that “Ooo baby I love you” or that “When we live in Europe together…” future plan-making shtick strike the perfect pitch every time. Fall on women’s ears with the sweet sonority they can’t resist.
These melodies at the outset are like those of frothy, vibrant pop or electronica music, ultimately segueing into death metal when he suddenly doesn’t have the patience to create the more pleasant, quality beats for you anymore, the ones that indicate accompanying lyrics will be tantamount to the sentiments expressed in The Beatles’ version of “Till There Was You.” The death metal comes, when, instead, he wants to agitate you, get on your nerves so that you lose your patience and abandon ship–leave him to play the next woman, or rather, instrument. All the while, he’s probably listening to classical music, skull fucker that he is, on his own time. Because students in the art of playing must listen to the backbone of instrumentation.