Unfinished Object

A few days ago Almost Lucid posted an entry about the music that has permeated his life. Everything from show tunes to Tool. That entry has had me thinking about my tastes in music, but I must admit I hesitated posting because it is at times embarrassing (Barry Nannanose anyone?). The fact is that music has always been there, even when I wasn’t big enough to be making my own selections.

My father was, once upon a time, the member of a folk group that got as far as almost signing a record deal. On the eve of the trip to finalize everything two of the members dropped out and the group fell apart, but I still have the demo record, stamped in uber-thick vinyl and the song “In the Pines” is branded in my brain. Both of my parents played guitar, as did my uncle and some family friends. It was not unusual for us to be at a friends’s house late on a weekend night, the adults deep into a bottle (or two) of Annie Greensprings, singing and playing while the kids, wore out from ‘roughhousing’ slept wherever they fell. My mother always sang “One Tin Soldier” and I bet I still could.

Our summers were filled with trips to the lake and my uncle’s ski boat, carefully fitted with an eight-track player. In those days it was Jim Croce, The Kingston Trio and Neil Diamond blasting across the water. At home we had a reel to reel, a record player and a stereo and speakers that my dad built from an electronics kit. At least we did, until while vacationing, we were robbed. “The Day The Music Died” indeed. One Christmas Santa brought a Fisher Price record player and it came with records; two 45’s, Cheese Burger in Paradise, All By Myself, and one album, The Jungle Book soundtrack. I also had my dad’s old records, which I adored; Big Bad John, PeeWee the Kiwi Bird, Ruby Red to name a few. I can still tell you what color the paper rings were; Ruby Red’s was purple.

When we moved to Tennessee I was in the third grade and my world had been rocked. We lived in a small town outside of Nashville and I attended a freshly desegregated school. There had been very few black people in my life up to that point and the school came as a shock as blacks were the majority. I was ruthlessly picked upon for my highwater jeans and short hair and glasses; one boy even stopping me in the hall demanding to know if I were a boy or a girl. I couldn’t understand his Southern drawl and he decided to answer the question for himself by grabbing my crotch. I was, understandably, not in love with school but my music appreciation was growing. I recall a class that was not quite chorus, we sang very little, listened a lot, and played the recorder. The teacher shared songs like “Elenor Rigby”, and “Morning Has Broken”. I remember that she did so with a certain disdain; the curriculum probably demanded it, though her personal choice was very different. It is my child’s image of Elenor’s face in a jar that leaps at me when I hear that song, not the understanding that they referred to makeup.

I did take chorus but only because it was a requirement to join band. By fifth grade it was forgotten and the clarinet discovered. Every year we played “Rocky Top” as we marched through town for the rodeo parade. But in class we began to broaden our classical horizons. In Junior High we played pep rallies and Christmas concerts, I braved one solo with the Jazz Band, and attended ‘All State’ twice. Willy and Waylon rang through the house, which I tried to drown out with “Afternoon Delight”. Ever the naive one I thought it was some fabulous after school dessert, which I suppose it was for some.

My family moved again, this time to Georgia and I stayed in band. Concert band, marching band, and ensemble. My first year we were breaking in a new band director after some scandal forced the old one to resign and we sucked. By my senior year we were winning awards and were well known until that director ran off with one of the majorettes. Each year my interest tapered off a little more, and I practiced less and moved one painful seat down at a time until I regularly flirted with last chair. I’m sure I couldn’t blast out more that a few notes today, but being in band did a fine job of peppering my music collection with classical, new age and more than a few acoustical soundtracks; The Man From Snowy River, Legend, Labyrinth to name a few.

I owned my own stereo by then and vast collection of cassettes. Most were homemade, ripped from the ‘Top Forty Countdown’. To my parent’s dismay my brother and I engaged in the battle of the bands; Cindi Lauper and Prince screaming from my room, Butthole Surfers and Psychedelic Furs from his. I’m sure there is still a small hole from a martial arts throwing star in my bedroom door, launched in disgust at my music choice. College followed a few years after and my interest turned to Indigo Girls, and a big helping of what I considered ‘my parents music’, the music I had started with, Gordon Lightfoot, Harry Chapin, The Eagles, Simon and Garfunkel. The man (‘boy’ is far more apropos) I was seeing then was a throwback to the 70’s and introduced me to Cream, ZZ-Top and Bread. And of course, being the 80’s there was MTV. To this day I can’t hear a Pat Benatar song without accompanying video playing in my head.

When I moved to Florida, my first big ‘by myself’ move, I cued up the cassette deck so the song would start just as the truck and trailer hit full speed on the interstate. It was Melissa Etheridge, ‘Chrome Plated Heart’. My first few years here my only friend was my dad and my music tastes continued to echo that which I’d grown up with and my college favorites. I was no good at exploring on my own, and though I’d taken a risk by moving, I took few immediately after that, music selection included.

My future ‘step’ mom entered my dad’s life and she brought Reba McIntyre and Garth Brooks with her. I began to dabble in the ‘new’ country music and stumbled over Mary Chapin Carpenter, who I still enjoy. D entered my life, and he too brought music that was new to me. The Pogues (and all things Celtic), Sinead O’Conner, and the love of his life: Aimee Mann. He continues to bring things into the house that I might not listen to on my own, some I enjoy and some set me teeth on edge. I accuse him of listening to angry music and he rolls his eyes and turns it up. Like me, he is always happy to listen to anything 80’s and we are able to strike a happy medium.

I couldn’t tell you what my favorite music is today. My newest albums are from Imogene Heap and the Dixie Chicks and I’m considering one from Michelle Branch and the Wreckers. I still shush the room at the opening riff for “Jessie’s Girl” and blast it through the neighborhood. If it’s Karaoke you’re after my preferred tune is Nancy Sinatra’s ‘These Boots are Made for Walking’. I have happy music, sad music, angry music and everyday music. A home without music would feel much like a home without pets; strange, empty and too quiet. With music I can always go home, no matter where I am and I cannot imagine being without it.

Posted by Shan on 02/23 at 03:15 PM
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