As I dust off old radios in this stay-at-home world, I'm bemused how a thousand different styles - from Beethoven to Jimmy Barnes and The Black Eyed Peas - can all be jammed into the one crowded house called "music."
Most of us have a love/hate relationship with the disparate genres and know that what's music to some ears is mucous to others.
But it's also distressing to know that centuries of soaring talent remains unheard by the very millennials who turn artists with far less talent than attitude into filthy-rich megastars.
In my wildest dreams I imagine myself orchestrating a local mime show, introducing young folk to "good old music" so they might appreciate the greatness of the bygone Sinatra, Crosby, Martin and Garland.
There would be nothing highbrow about the chosen songs; just those that have melody and drama, with lyrics that are meaningful and moving.
The playlist might include You Light Up My Life, the love song that Debby Boone turned into a spiritual anthem, or Lena Horne's strident 1963 civil rights song Now! which was banned from airplay in the United States, and Peggy Lee, reciting a tale of lost love and disillusion in Is That All There Is?
I was never one for the harsh twang and bang of guitars and drums and the repetitive verse of rock "classics" that turn music into Hare Krishna-like chants.
My lament for the mellow is motivated by Rolling Stone magazine's absurd 2015 feature listing the "100 Greatest Songwriters of all Time" which ignores Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hammerstein!
Equally unworthy was the 2017 Vulture article which ranked the 213 Beatles songs from "worst" (Good Day Sunshine) to "best" (A Day in the Life) while stirring up 100 antagonisms in between. Really!
That shrill piece of nonsense I Want To Hold Your Hand (49) rates higher than Fool On The Hill (107)?
I cringe at radio station hype that claims to play "the greatest hits of all time." If that were true White Christmas, Rock Around the Clock and Yes Sir, I Can Boogie - which all figure in the biggest-selling top 10 - would be on high rotation.
I love to run to music in uncontaminated air. Without hip-hop, or be-bop, my private playlist is for the most part 1970s to 80s pop, but inclusive of Puccini arias and Ravel's Bolero.
I'm content with just 244 favourite tunes on my humble player, but a lady friend is gobsmacked by its limits.
"I've got 4000 songs on my phone alone!" she crows.
"Yes," I snap, "but that's because you listen to everything, including my, my, my, my My Sharona, which shows that I'm more discerning."
"But better than what's on the news today," she retorts. Touché.