Now that’s what I call music my physique could get ripped to

If you’re anything like me, you’ve noticed the
dearth of Jock Jams releases as of late.

Sure, there remains a glut of other hit compilation albums on
the market such as the “NOW That’s What I Call
Music” series, but as good as John Mayer might be for
romancing the ladies, he’s subpar for maxing out on the bench
press.

“Your Body is a Wonderland” plays well with the
adult contemporary, easy listening crowd, but in terms of making my
pectoral region monstrously huge, it failed to replicate its
stellar, chart-topping success.

Without a sweet compilation of today’s favorite hits into
one easy access location for my listening needs, my lifting
sessions were suffering.

Needless to say, my physique was becoming less Steven Seagal and
more Clay Aiken.

Then I stopped feeling sorry for myself and decided to muster up
the intensity to do something about it.

I had me a brief latte break at the corner Starbucks. Then I was
all business.

First thing my workout compilation needed was inspiration. Who
or what would be my muse?

The first thought that came to mind was a memory from junior
year in high school.

For a two-month period, every time I went out to my car after
school, there was always this one football player getting ready for
practice by sitting shirtless on the bed of his truck blasting
Creed’s “Higher” (this being Orange County,
naturally this was a raised truck with a full “system”
of woofers and tweeters).

Regular as clockwork, at 3 p.m. I could always count on lead
vocalist Scott Stapp to serenade me back to my own ’83 Isuzu
Impulse (side note ““ quite possibly the sweetest non-time
traveling car on the market).

Not once in that entire two-month period were any other songs
played or any shirts worn on the back of his truck.

And, dude, that dude had pecs.

That’s what I needed ““ a Creed of my own to get
shirtless (or at the least, sleeveless) and workout to.

A good test for any workout song is to put on fingerless gloves,
hit play, and if you’re induced to pump your fist in the air
to the rhythm, then you got some genuine gold in your hands –
iron-pumping gold.

The key element to any workout music is that it gets you super
pissed and pumped up.

I’m really alternative and emo so I figured that since
Dashboard Confessional makes me really mad at my parents for
grounding me in high school, it’d be just what the weight
lifting doctor ordered.

But had I bothered to look around, I would have noticed that emo
kids, despite the inner turmoil, are emaciated and pale.

After much experimentation, spanning a cappella to Zydeco, I
finally arrived at hip-hop, particularly the Tupac Shakur. Not only
did Tupac get me super pissed at society, but every classic cut
from his “All Eyez on Me” LP made my head bob up and
down to the beat.

Of course, I am loath to make generalities.

While the high-intensity, in-your-face lyricism of Tupac is my
cup of tea, for another lifter, the understated flow of Biggie
Smalls might be more propitious.

Either way, at the root, good music remains as essential to body
building as untraceable performance enhancing supplements.

Like any experienced lifter can tell you, sweet tunes are like a
shot of Creatine to the bicep.

The surge might not come in a needle, but the adrenaline is just
as real.

Conversely, show me a man who listens to the weak music blasted
over the general loudspeakers at the gym, and I’ll show you a
man who wears fanny packs unironically.

Leano thinks that fanny packs are as practical as they are
smart looking. E-mail him at [email protected]