I remember back to when I was a small child, spending summer mornings sitting Indian style on the floor of my family’s living room, as though worshiping before my parent’s stereo, in homage to my father’s collection of vinyl. Whole days would just wile away, a massive pair of headphones affixed to my head, as I rifled through LPs by the likes of The Beatles, The Beach Boys, and the freewheeling Bob Dylan. I wasn't aware of any Rainy Day Women in my life, but it didn’t matter. I simply liked the way that song sounded.
Looking back, mine was a youth that was all too innocent, but I would sit before a turntable, listening to the music of Three Dog Night, T. Rex, and The Sanford Townsend Band, and it would send me off to whole new worlds. Joni Mitchell sang of Paris, France, while Neil Young was insistent that we talk about Ohio. Rounding out that Canadian contingent, Gordon Lightfoot would not stop droning on about a boat that sat at the bottom of Lake Superior.
These were songs that taught me lots about the power of imagination, and about wordplay, too. The music of a band named Spanky & Our Gang transported me to a place called River City, where apparently, they had Trouble. This wasn’t your ordinary, garden-variety brand of trouble. It was “Trouble” with a capital “T” that rhymed with “P” that stood for “Pool”. I didn’t know what any of that meant, at the time, but it was plenty fun to say. Besides, it all became quite clear, once my sister starred in a production of The Music Man.
***
Whenever a record would come to an end, the turntable would click and you could watch as the mechanical arm returned the needle to its resting place. That would serve as my cue. I’d hop up to find a new album, and I had a pair of places to explore. There was a cabinet in the bottom or our entertainment center (do you remember “entertainment centers”?), but there were also boxes housed in a hall closet.
That closet, come to find, was a virtual treasure trove. I would lug out six or seven albums at a time, and it was there that I first discovered a record by Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass. Mind you, I never once listened to a single song on the whole of that album, and for one apparent reason. I couldn’t take my eyes off the album cover.
It was a relatively simple design, only a green backdrop and a picture of a woman wearing nothing more than a particular dessert topping. Well, there was also the presence of a pale, pink rose that sort of rested in her hand, but after the woman and the dessert topping, it kind of took a little while to notice that part.
For the life of me, I don’t know who that woman was, but I would like to thank her. I would like to take a moment to extend my gratitude—not only to that woman, but also to the kind and decent man (believe you me, it was definitely a man) who thought to place her on that album cover. What with the whip cream and all, her visage was a cornerstone of my formative years. It kind of ruined me on the girls at my elementary school, but whatever. At least I knew what I had to look forward to.
***
Music has served as the backdrop for many a memorable moment.
Because our family drove everywhere, my Dad would always have the radio on. Trips would be made to the Northern shores of Michigan, listening to the music of Marshall Crenshaw, himself a native son of the Great Lake State. He made the monotony of a four-hour drive melodic. Come to think of it, he also taught me the meaning of the word “cynical”.
Some of these moments are innocuous, like a weekend in October when my parents went away, leaving my sisters and I to stay with an aunt and uncle. I can recall my aunt driving along the shores of an inland lake. Cyndi Lauper came on the car radio. She was singing “True Colors”, and I just kept looking up and out the car window, staring at the autumn’s foliage, tinted all shades of brick and pumpkin. Whenever I go back there now, no matter the time of year, I cannot help but think of Cyndi Lauper.
To this day, the music of the 10,000 Maniacs will send my memories sailing back to the wedding of my cousin and her husband. They had made “These Are Days” their wedding song. It was an inspired choice that I have never heard repeated, and though our family is large and spans many generations, that song captures the ebullience that we were all displaying on that day.
On one late summer’s afternoon, many, many years ago, it was my Dad and not my Mom who took me school shopping. That was the year that I came home with several pairs of pleated pants, but I also landed my very first cassette tape. You see, as we were making our way through the shopping mall, my Dad and I came upon a record store. It was probably a Harmony House, or some such chain that doesn’t exist any more, but my Dad suggested that we wander in. As we did, he said that I could buy an album—any album that I wanted! I stalked the racks, both up and down, before settling on Bryan Adams and the album Reckless.
I never said that my musical selections have always been spot-on. Like most of the people that we know, I have those moments when I’m overcome by a guilty pleasure. In fact, there’s lots of Pop music that I really do adore.
See Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone.” Also, Katy Perry’s “Hot ‘N’ Cold”. Evidence, too: Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face”.
I’m not ashamed. I love those songs and will sing them out loud, provided no one’s within earshot. It’s just that for every guilty pleasure, my wallet gets $.99 lighter.
***
To this day, I can spend hours in a record store. There is something in the tactile rhythm that can only be achieved by allowing your fingers to flip through disc after disc, as you rummage through the bins. It’s just a shame that so few record stores exist, these days, and that we’re forced to replace what was a visceral experience with the likes of Apple’s iTunes.
Don’t get me wrong. I love iTunes. Given the convenience and sheer ubiquity, I have to admit that I’ve developed a rather sizeable iTunes habit. I don’t really want to admit to the amount of money that I’ve spent there, but I will say this: Whoever thought to make music merely one click away was brilliant, no doubt, but they also had themselves a really bad idea.
Just the other night, I dumped a grand total of $49 on that infernal store. For that amount of money, I could have bought six beers at the bar—five, if you account for tipping. I could have gotten myself all good and liquored up, and maybe even met the girl I’m going to marry, but no. Instead, I spent much of the evening traipsing my way through the back catalogs of youthful indiscretion.
They were all there. One-Hit Wonders of the 1980’s. Singer-Songwriters of the 70’s. Brit-Pop of the 1990’s. From OMD’s “Dreaming” to “Hello It’s Me”, the frolicking lament from Todd Rundgren, I ended up with a scatter-shot collection.
So many of the songs I remembered well. Most each and every one was before my time, but it didn’t matter. I could recall hearing them all, at one moment or another.
I bought “Vehicle” by The Ides of March, and “When Will I See You Again” by The Three Degrees. I even bought “The Hustle” by Van McCoy. (I’ve got a wedding or two to attend this summer.)
I bought each and every one because the music took me back somewhere, to a time and a place that I could remember. These were songs that I’d hear on the beach, every summer, else songs that the kids in my neighborhood would play, back when they thought they were “discovering” the music that their parents had in no way, never, ever heard of before. You know, like Led Zeppelin.
***
I think back to the dance tracks, to the drinking songs, and to the songs that the newly married play, when they first take to the floor at a wedding. We choose music to punctuate those moments most important to us, and there’s a reason that we do.
Music sets the mood. It makes for memories. It captures a moment that we can always recreate, time and again, just by hitting Play.
I wonder, sometimes, what song might be playing when I first lay eyes on you.
