Tag: 45RPM

 I grew up singing.  Not in a choir, or formally, but just whenever. Around the house, walking down the street, driving, in the shower, doing the dishes, all of those are good times for a song. Whenever a song hits me, I usually sing it.  One of the best compliments I ever received was a friend who mused, “I always thought musicals were unreal, all those people bursting into song at every moment.  Then I met you.”  My singing voice isn’t particularly good, but it’s fairly on pitch, plus I can remember a lot of words and I’m very enthusiastic.  My friends in high school were wonderful in so many ways, but I think my favorite thing about them was that they too burst into song at random moments.  One sunny afternoon we were just sitting around downstairs when suddenly Cindy started beating out a rhythm on her leg.  Enough of us recognized it as the intro to “Cathy’s Clown” and we hit our first note and were off and running.  “Don’t want your luh-uh-uh-uh-ove, any-more…”  We sang through the song, with Cindy taking a guitar arpeggio here and there.  Our rendition was good enough to bring my mother from the laundry room, smiling at our crazy youthful theatrics.  We were smiling too.

My parents bought me a car to drive about a year after I got my driver’s license.  It wasn’t fancy, a Mustang II with an AM radio and a penchant for leaking oil and breaking down.  When my brother got his license, my parents upgraded us to a green ’79 Mustang with tires too big for the wheel wells.  They would scrape every time we went over a big bump or a dip.  For a period of time, it had no radio.  This was more maddening than only being restricted to the AM band, but some good came out of it.  Before everyone had their licenses, we all piled in the cars of the few who could drive in order to get from here to there.  We were smashed together, chattering all the way, laughing and gossiping.  In other cars, music was the background or the foreground of our ride, but in my car we filled the silence ourselves.  Driving a dark road to somewhere one night we fell silent until Eric burst into the opening notes of Gun’s and Roses Mr. Brownstone.  We were all GnR fans, and knew every word, so we rode into the night, our drug-free bodies singing with great gusto about addition and touring and a life that nearly all of us would never lead.

In my mid-twenties I lived in my version of Shangri-La:  a five bedroom house with two bathrooms and four other female roommates. One of my roommates was dating one of our neighbors, a late-20s PhD who spent his days doing some sort of scientific research I didn’t understand.  He lived alone, but his younger brother was often over and we saw a lot of the two of them. We called them the James Brothers.  His brother, in the fashion of younger brothers the world over, was the hipper, freer James Brother, working in a job I don’t remember, but more importantly, painting his car with chalkboard paint and playing the guitar here and there.  He was pretty darn attractive, and even more so when he played his guitar for us in our house.   One evening he launched in to the song “Hallelujah” and I knew from the first verse this was a song that needed to become a part of me.  After he finished playing and we clapped I made inquires.  The younger James brother lent me his Jeff Buckley tape so I could spend the next few weeks rewinding and hitting play. Much like the experience of my twenties, the song is both simple and complex, hopeful and melancholy, wrapping angry words in a poetry that hits an incredible range of emotions.  I’ve heard other versions, but I come back to Jeff Buckley,* because the fact that  he was a talented artist who died too soon adds yet another layer to what is already a complex and beautiful song.

*Although I shut off the song when he gets to his “general wailing” part at the end.

One summer, I worked the night shift two days per week at a budget motel.  There were a lot of “betweens” that summer.  I was between colleges and boyfriends, my parents were poised between marriage and divorce and my brother was between residences.  I loved and hated the night shift.  It was fun being on my own, the only one awake among hundreds of sleeping motel guests.  I loved that I was an official “creature of the night”.  But it was exhausting, pushing myself all the way to 6:00 a.m., and sleeping during the day was a challenge.  There also wasn’t much to do in the middle of the night after all the grumpy traveling families had checked in and were tucked away in their beds, and all the truckers had wandered from their endless conversations in the lobby to their slumber.  I listened to cassette tapes to keep me company and every morning at 4:30 I would take a “security walk” around the parking lot. It was really just an excuse to get out of the office before people turned out to complain about the toast bar.  By 4:30 the dawn had broken and the clear Boise sky was melting into blue.  No matter how tired I was, no matter how boring the night had been, it was always a beautiful morning and I sang this song aloud as I ambled through the lot.  Oh what a beautiful day.

ps.  Hugh Jackman! He’s the man! He’s rather broad, but you have to picture him much further away from you, up on stage.

I was in eighth grade and had just discovered music the year before.  And when I say, “discovered music” I mean music that people were releasing just then, the music that would become “my” music.  Until mid-seventh grade, aside from an infatuation with Michael Jackson and a flirtation with Huey Lewis and the News, I preferred music from the oldies stations which were, at that time, playing music from the late 50s and early 60s.  But when I decided I did like modern music, I took to it like a duck to water and formed strong opinions about a lot of things.  I came home one day after school to find my brother watching this video, which at that point was about four years old.

Most of my music tastes in high school ran to hair metal bands, but Concrete Blonde was the one group I listened to that could be considered “college radio material.”*  I have  a lot of memories of Concrete Blonde, but for some reason, I associate this song with two girls whose names have been lost to time.  They were a year older than me.  Both of them were drama chicks, so I found them somewhat annoying in that hyper drama chick way.  But they also seemed incredibly sophisticated, girls who drank coffee in coffee shops, who had read Gurtrude Stein and possibly understood her, who had figured out how to drink at parties without getting drunk.  As seniors, they edited the high school’s literary magazine and probably went to colleges like Oberlin, or Brown.  At least they seemed as if they did.  One was somewhat tall and willowy, with long brown hair.  Once she wore a dancer’s leotard to school with a long broomstick skirt.  The leotard exposed her long, thin back almost to her waist and had me wondering if I could pull off such a style.  The other one was a similar height, with curly hair and small eyes that seemed to be narrowed as if she was constantly processing the happenings around her.  I think she must have sung this song at a talent show.  I wonder what’s become of them both?

*College radio.  It was a phrase used a lot when I was in high school, but I never hear it now. Why is that?

Welcome to a new feature.  Here I will feature a song from my past and the specific memory or person I associate with it.  My goal is to be descriptive and brief, summing things up in one, and only one, paragraph. My goal also might be to torture you with songs from my past.  We shall see.

I hate this song for a variety of reasons: it was overplayed, it’s schmaltzy, the title begins with a parenthetical statement, it’s an example of Bryan Adams at the end of his fame, not the lean, hungry rocker he was in the 80s.  But I didn’t always hate this song.  When it first came out, I liked it for its subservient, romantic lyrics and I think the piano chords at the beginning suckered me in.  But I spent too much time with it–there was no escaping it for a good six months, both on MTV and the radio–and by the time they finally stopped playing it I absolutely loathed it.  I associate it with my first boyfriend, probably because it was the love song for the movie Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves, that lackluster Kevin Costner effort I loved because I was sixteen and didn’t know any better.  We must have seen it together on a date .  But it occurs to me now that my trajectory with the song mirrors our relationship trajectory:  I liked him, there was infatuation, too much time together, and when it was all over I hated him.