morning music

I was, until a few months ago, rocking an old-school discman on my walks to and from the office (the discman, in turn, was rocking a super-tough skull and crossbones sticker from here. I like to think it made me look tough.)
Sadly, my retro cd machine met his end in an unfortunate floor-related accident and I was suddenly music-less.
Not able take the silent commutes, I finally broke down and bought an ipod (yeah yeah, ipod haters, whatever), and am now back to walking the streets in my anti-social headphone cocoon, scoring full dork points with my baby blue ipod sock.
Anyway, I find it interesting how different music affect how I see the world around me, even during something as routine as a walk to the office. The other morning I left my house listening to an upbeat little ditty (I believe it was Jean Knight's "Mr Big Stuff") and just around the corner I passed an old man walking the other way, 70ish, slightly stooped, shuffling along with a cane, wearing black shoes with black socks pulled up to his pasty knees, little blue shorts, a stripe-ity shirt and, just for kicks, a sailor's hat perched rakishly upon his head. And here is where it may have been the music talking, but I swear he had a bit of a swagger as he shuffled on down the street, a coy little smile playing on his lips.
Or yesterday, almost to the office, this time listening to a cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, done by Susanna and the Magical Orchestra. Now, if you know the original version, you'll know that it's already a fairly slow and melancholy piece, but Susanna and her orchestra draw it out to it's limit, slowing the tempo as they go, creating the impression that the song will never actually end, but reach a point, mid chorus, where time stops and you get trapped in the song forever. So this song is slowly dripping from my headphones and the sun on my face is making everything feel that much more sweet and sleepy, and coming the other comes a woman pushing a stroller, and in the stroller is a child of 2 or 3, stretched and lounging. The song is now winding down and with it the motion of things around me slows until it seems as if we're pushing along underwater. The child looks up and catches my eye. We hold each other's gaze as we pass, Susanna and her magical time-stopping orchestra stretching the moment deliciously. And then, just before looking away, a small nod from the stroller as if to say, yes, it just doesn't get any more serene than this.