Memories of Music

Most of my life, as I remember it, is with a musical score in the background.
For example; driving home from work in the late 70's I was stopped at the corner of 136th and Riley when a new song came on the radio. Some unknown band called Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers was introducing a new song called Breakdown. I remember thinking what a stupid name for a band and how this would be a one-hit-wonder and we would never have to suffer the indignity of hearing that name again.

Then the music started and wow, I was floored!.  Real blues base with a rock background and a voice that pulled it all together. I wanted more and I wanted it LOUDER.
I went looking for the album that night with my new girlfriend. We had to drive all the way to Grand Rapids to find it. I had to borrow a few dollars from her so I could get the cassette and the vinyl. I clearly remember the way she smelled, I only vaguely remember her face and not her name. I do remember the way our body's moved in time to the music in the big front seat of that old Thunderbird on the way home. She was curled up next to me, her perfect skin and blond hair gently lit by the dash lights and passing cars. Sometimes I can still smell her when that song comes up on Pandora.

My earliest memories of music were riding in the car with my parents. Dad always had some country station on with his perpetual cigarette spewing smoke and ash all over the car. His window would be open a crack and I would sit in a swirling pool of smoke, cold air, ashes and snow in the back seat of that '66 Mustang. I learned early not to complain; dad would either ignore me or my mother would start yet another fight about his smoking.
Later, I would occasionally ride along with my dad in his plumbing truck. The same country station tuned in on that built in AM radio would compete with the rattling, banging, and clanking of the sundry tools and mysterious metal parts in the back of a plumbers van. He would punch the dash lighter in and turn the volume up while waiting for the lighter to pop.
At that age, I really never heard anything but country. I know it was just noise to me, perhaps my brain was not developed enough to recognize music, maybe country is not really music, whatever it was I never gave it much thought.

Fast forward to the mid 70's. A buddy of mine called late one fall night and excitedly told me to tune into the vast wasteland that was FM radio. FM? I asked. FM is where old church music and orchestras go to die a slow boring death. Nobody listens to FM. Well, nobody under the old age of 30.
Tuning into 96.9 that night opened a whole world of music the likes of which I (and many other kids) had never heard. This was an AOR (Album Oriented Rock) Station.
Life, as I knew it, changed that night. Black Sabbath with a singer named Ozzy, Genesis,  Aerosmith, Jethro Tull, the forbidden Alice Cooper, Buffalo Springfield, the Eagles, all delivered at normal speed, without blabbering idiots or a 22 song playlist repeated every 44 minutes. The deep, dark, smooth as worn leather voice of Doc Whatshisname pulling everything together with history, names and venues. All delivered without interfering with the music. In this place the music was revered, important, the reason for being. The reception in my darkened bedroom with headphones was so clear I could almost smell the smoke on his breath. I felt like an honest to doG music connoisseur.

After high school as I was starting my career, my previously undiagnosed wanderlust flared up.  I bought a 1969 Ford Econoline Van with blacked out windows and a fur lined interior. The pussywagon (my buddy dubbed it) was my first camper. I paid $900 for it, put a top of the line cassette system with Rockford Fosgate speakers totaling almost half of what I paid for the van. And a sleeping bag in the back. My dad just shook his head as he crushed out another cigarette and walked away. My girlfriend and I (different one) packed up and drove to California for a month of Heart, Elton John, Jimmy Buffet, Tom Petty, Aerosmith, REO speedwagon, Steely Dan, Boston, CCR, and many many others. Yeah, we saw some of the country too. When I think of Needles, I think of Boz Skags. Highway 1 or 101 is met with Thin Lizzy and Bob Seger. San Francisco is Forienger and Heart.


Years later while watching the movie The Jerk in the Park Theater with a dark haired girl that looked really good in jeans, I knew exactly how Steve's character felt when his toes started moving to the music. He found music that spoke to the depths of his soul, and touched the inner reaches of his being. This was my WLAV moment in 1974.

The late 70's and early 80's produced a bit of a musical vacuum, Kiss and the hairbands really didn't do much for me. Then AC/DC Back in Black exploded into my life, along with Jeeps, PBR, and some friends I would not allow my kids to hang with. The next few years were Blue Oyster Cult, more AC/DC, the re-discovery of Pink Floyd, the forever irreverent and pissed off Neil Young, George Thoroughgood, Chrissy Hind and the Pretenders, Billy Joel. The weekends full of good party's, bad girlfriends, topless Jeeps, and no cares in the world. The nights of making love by a campfire to the sounds of Becker and Fagan singing Hey Nineteen, Cuarvo Gold, Gaucho, my Rival, Time out of Mind. As we lay nested together in the sleeping bag by the fire Bob Seger would serenade us with Old Time Rock n Roll, we would giggle at NutBush City Limits, and lull off to sleep to Beautiful Loser, and Turn The Page.  The mornings..... Well, some memories should stop with the good stuff.




In the early 80's when Michael Jackson was beating it and Marvin Gaye was Healing it, Billy Idol was screaming about a White Wedding while I got married. Music took much of a back seat during this time of transition from wild man to family man.

I took a job at Haworth in the mid 80's. Musically this time really sucked for me. Music, a loose term, was shoved in over a PA system. Every day we we were force fed a preset station . Country was played every other night (I was working 2nd shift), and top 40 the other nights. While U2 was looking for whatever he lost, Axel Rose was screaming about Children and Jungles, and Labamba was just adding to the noise. Country nights were the worst. The top 40 stations would at least rotate songs every few weeks, the country stations were playing the same old whiny crap my dad listened to while force feeding me second hand smoke and ashes. The few bright spots were the debut music by Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Peter Gabriel, and when Metallica finally realized that 45 minute scream fests were not really talent, and my perennial favorite Tom Petty.

I remember my first purchase of a music CD was Stevie Ray Vaughn's In Step. As brilliant a piece of post recovery, pre-death work as one could hope to leave as a legacy.

When the drinking started, I found myself looking to music to ease the pain; Neal Young offered an angry alternative. Evanescence offered a smooth lyrical salve on the open wounds of living with an alcoholic. I found that revisiting the memories of the music of happier times helped for awhile.  Hurt by NIN and later covered by a dying Johnny Cash addressed addictions directly as did several songs by Nirvana,  Sixx AM, and Pearl Jam. Addictions, it would seem, run deep in the creative community.

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More recently I have discovered some 90's and early 2000 bands such as Lincoln Park, AudioSlave, Foo Fighters, Tool and Perfect Circle, and one that seems to reflect the angst of a destructing relationship, Breaking Benjamin. They also have the coolest album cover.
Even Eminm has made it onto my playlist.



As the next stage of my life unfolds without my partner of the past 29 years, I am looking forward to what music I will discover as I build another life. Already some new bands are showing up. A lot will depend on the next woman who chooses to share a life with me. I really hope she will be the last one. I hope our playlist will be as varied and full of good memories as my past ones.

The most recent memory was made as we walked arm in arm along the quaint main street of Douglas looking at art, sampling wine, and pondering the gender orientation of the small groups of people we passed. The post labor day weather was perfect in my dockers and short sleeves and her summer dress. The sounds of the previous generation's Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin followed us up and down the street, always gently greeting us on the side walk as we exited a gallery.
Later in the fading daylight, after having a captivating dinner with an intelligent, beautiful, tall blonde woman in a summer dress, we strolled the streets of Saugatuck exploring the shops, talking, and watching the people. When we entered a shop with music in the background her body would involuntarily start moving to the beat. It was clear she wanted to dance! It wasn't long before we heard the strains of a live blues band wafting it's way down the side walk to lure us in. We followed the beat to the open front door of a decidedly sketchy looking bar with a large bearded 'backwards hat' and heavily tattoo'd bouncer. It was clear that our ID's were not to be checked tonight as he waved us right in.
We occupied a table on the dance floor very near the four piece band. The band was very good, as one would expect even in the off season. I shook off my silly chains of inhibition and joined her on that scarred wooden dance floor.  We danced for hours to covers of Joe Cocker, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Janice Joplin, and many others. I had the best slow dance of life that night, and I can't remember what the song was.
The rain started as we left. We ran hand in hand to the car dodging occasionally under the sporadic awnings and alcoves laughing as we tried to remember where we parked.
This magical night is one I will file away for the rest of my life. The music and the company forced back the rising tide of stress and situational hopelessness for a few hours.
Maybe a 54 year old guy can have fun again...