They say, that the best music to listen to while studying is Classical music. And reading is like studying. So you'd think, that if you're going to listen to any music at all while you read, then you'd be best to listen to Classical music.
But have you tried listening to music while you read? It's not the greatest idea. It's a bit distracting. If anything, I'd suggest having it play in the background, on the stereo or something, the radio, through a speaker. The other ambient noises round the room help dilute the music a bit. And it all blends together a bit better, the harmony of life. Rather than listening to music through headphones or earbuds, which are attached directly to your head.
Reading however, I suggest most, that you skip the music completely. Right leave it off. You don't need it. Because reading is music. Or well, writing is music. Or it should be. That's how you know what you're reading is good or not. Does it sing to you? Is it a bit poetic? Because that should be the writer's intention—along with saying what they have to say—to sing to their readers, to sing to you.
Like for example, some sentences should be short. Some should be shorter. And some will be so long indeed, that that writer just rambles-off this and that, flies right off at the ends, a spark of genuine madness to boot, properly outside the head, straight through to the edge of the equator, that hot, molten center of the Earth. And then they return again. Peek-a-boo. Who's that, then? Trick or treat? It's nearly Christmas already, really. Just down the road, round the corner, then 2 houses down, it's on the left. Jingle bells, jingle bells. The fat man sings. Then he strangles you in your sleep, steals your cash stashed under your mattress, and runs to 'Toys' before it closes, to buy some presents for little Pete and Kathy. Who he'll likely be strangling next year to get some presents for Tom, Tammy, and Pepper. From Amazon by then, he'll have no other choice, the fat boy.
And word-choice also helps move along the song, the writing too. Is it all wrote in just one tone, a bit dry as white bread a few days old? Or does the writer bounce from word to word, dancing along the beat that's lifted from out the air, captured, recorded, and regurgitated back, a fresh fit of vomit to share. Some spittle on the chin. Or, it's not even about the words really, actually. Especially on Tuesdays after a good snow, when the skunk digs its nose deep into the hollow of a tree. No one knew how many forks there really were, anyway. Not till Bev found her car keys. The party got-on then, afterwards, boy, let me tell you.
You music-lovers, I know. To mute the melody for even a minute is difficult indeed. But if it's a little reading you fancy, you'd like to do, then let the words you read sing to you instead.