Monday, March 23, 2009
This morning started out with Hoagy Carmichael playing "Stardust Melody." Our black cat sat in the window next to my desk, lapping up the water I set before him on the window sill. We are both enjoying the open window out to the back porch that frames a cool, damp, rain washed woods.
Last night I bumped into Pandora, an internet radio project. I was captured at first look, she proved fun and soothing. She will just play, or be delightfully interactive. Pandora displays the album covers of each individual musical selection with thumbs up, thumbs down icons at the bottom right and left corners of the albums, I could figure that out. Of course she is continually adjusting to those inputs, crafting a unique playlist that I will enjoy.
She was initiated with one request: Hoagy Carmichael. Pandora created a radio station, not of one artist, but of a music genre. As the station plays, the album covers roll by from right to left, I can pass judgement (or not). Sometimes, as the music relates to what I am thinking, or writing, I can jot down the song's particulars; having very specific information right at hand.
When I realized the artist selection established the type of music and even the time period, I opted for Santana. Resulting in a big change from Hoagy Carmichael. I was then awash in a flow of Santana selections and music and artists contemporary to them. I had my second radio station completed and saved. Pandora is like having a personal assistant for my music.
Following Santana I experimented with Freddy Fender, The Beatles, Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys--and for the smoothness of it; Dave Koz. That was last night and reluctantly I had to shut down the broadcast center Pandora, and get some sleep.
This morning I went back to Pandora's box. And I noticed I have a long list of "radio stations," and now there is a vertical slide arrow to the right of them. I want to find out what it is for. But Frank Sinatra is crooning "Indian Summer" and I cannot bear to interrupt him. Then followed by "It might as well be spring" and John Pizzarelli picks up right where Frank left off. I will just have to find out later.