I firmly believe that we never hear a song twice. And I don't mean, that it's the first time you hear it that matters most. It's the time that you heard it, really held it, within a circumstance that sets the music for you, fitted like in fine jewelry. That gemstone, that cameo, or picture in the locket, becoming surrounded by auditory gold, or silver if preferred.

Then, with every glance back at the music, we see it as if turning in another light...

yet, somehow, that most significant instance, is there in the tint of the shadows, or highlights, and becomes a near or distant accompaniment... as mood that goes with, in the background.

We seldom sang at home. It turned out that was a great regret, to our adults. Our dad sang us songs sometimes. Our mom once confided, when we were grown and on our own: "I thought for sure having two girls meant there would be constant singing around the house..."

She never sang. We dare not either, except in private, where there were no adults to criticize. (I make a point now of singing loud with my little boy, and my heart cheers and flutters at every attempt of his to follow along with lyrics, to hum a tune, or invent his own songs. I want for him to know that freedom of spirit.)

Criticism was taken very seriously in the household, immediate and extended family, as an art form in itself in the oratory tradition. I understand now why mom held her tongue rather than be scolded and reminded that her tastes were too common.

I'm listening now to Diana Ross and the Supremes and remembering the grimace that passed across faces. No one wants to be shamed of the music that finds resonance within themselves; for reasons, more oft than not, hidden or incoherent, and psychologically complex.

As I'm dwelling on music that moved, emotionally or intellectually, impacting our path in some way, I can't help go back to this one song involuntarily, that on hearing once as a teen, I could not listen to again, but would shut it off, or walk away. I have blocked the title, and the artist, only to say it is a commonly played 80s tune by a rock band with female vocalists, and it must have been, objectively speaking a powerful number, to have that gripping effect on a young person. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the moral implications, the ethics, and where I would place myself into the situations of any one of the characters that would be involved. It was story song, a rock ballad. (I am leaving no clues here, so don't trouble the mind in trying to retrace any leftover grains.)

I won't listen to it even now, yet I commend the impact. That is art, isn't it? and we remember the footprints in the sands of memory long after they have been wind swept and near irrelevant. Things change. They certainly shift. A little bit of sensory input, goes a long way, many a times.

I've never been to a grand concert... It would terrify, I imagine. Once, on impulse I bought tickets to the unlikely proposition that 10,000 Maniacs was to play live at our nearby ski and summer resort and conference center called with southern homeliness Mountain Creek. That was very bold of me, but familiarity built up confidence, and I sometimes make a gamble on odd chances. Tickets, for me and my sister; we never went. The concert was "canceled" a day or two before, and it took months to get a refund. Maybe cynical teenage imagination was at play, but we decided somebody had swindled a quick loan from the community... it was quite hard to believe that our little locale would be visited by any such name brand in music, just too good to be true...

https://youtu.be/c0b7ltFrB34?si=yZZz542f3eufMGef

As a theme, I've been drawn to songs about the passing of time. Maybe it's because the first cassette I ever owned was Cyndi Lauper's 1983 She's So Unusual album, and my favorite track was Time After Time.

https://youtu.be/lx8-95fPjHc?si=uEe9FB3qZCnDqi6P

I remember receiving the cassette soon after starting school, so I would say I was six or seven years old. By that time mom had already run off from our home twice; with us and without us, children. The tune has continued to grow in meaning for me.

Eventually, I did some church choir singing, and to this day those hymnals, memorized, are among the most comforting musical tunes for me. I'm thinking of songs like Here I am Lord; On Eagles Wings; and Amazing Grace, among others.

I'm trying very hard to think of a song or album that I felt initially one way about, and then, on rehearing, changed my mind... and it must have happened, but apparently nothing that strongly felt, as I am not recalling. Maybe I feel less dismissive of Frank Sinatra or Linda Ronstadt or similar voices that I thought, early on, lacked depth... unfair judgements, immature, and I chide myself against these notions, nowadays.

It takes quite a lot of vulnerability to create songs, lyrical or instrumental, of every kind, especially as a cohesive body of work. Yes, there is music that doesn't suit the moment, but it ought not be dismissed altogether... Or deemed as good or bad. I've tried very much to be open to all music and to its ability to nurture our soul along the journey. We are blessed, when we can turn and return to music again, if only reliving it in our hearts.

This is where I'll leave your note.

The first one I ever received was pinned to my shirt. It was yellow construction paper, cut out into the shape of a school bus. "832" was written on it in one of the eight most important colors that exist in the world, according to Crayola.

You're still one of the 8 most influential people in my world, according to every woman I've loved since last we spoke.

The first note I gave wasn't folded cleverly. I didn't learn how to do that until well into my teen years, when I had a reason to do the cute little tucks and tails. To her credit, she didn't laugh, but the subtle shake of her head was indication enough that the words she would use after reading would be empty attempts at mollification or hollow apology.

It's alright, though. Because later, I found someone worth walking 500 miles for.

Until she wasn't.

The note I found at your apartment, it wasn't mine to find. It was an accident, really. I wasn't looking for it, but there it was. It spelled out in clumsy verse, in my best friend's handwriting, words that I knew in my heart but hadn't yet seen with my eyes.

You were gone, and he was with you.

Not me.

Until he wasn't.

Oh, I am now fine. I wasn't fine. I didn't think I would ever be, but, well. Time heals, and all that. And wow, it's been a lot of time. A lot of todays between you and me and then.

A problem of mine, though, is that I linger. I still bleed a little when the trees move from green to smokeless flicker-flame. It's spring now, but everything turns to autumn when I remember you.

So this is where I leave the bloody trail, smeared for everyone to see and experience along with me. Pictographs written in clear language with unclear resolutions, red-fading-to-rust, scrawled for pondering and perusing.

I think the issue here is the time of year. I don't love the spring and all its promise, because promises get broken. Fall doesn't lie, it lies in wait. It's coolness is fact instead of false hope. Frost is a guarantee instead of a final, rude surprise. Spring gives way to hazy days, but autumn gives way to lazier days, shorter in duration and sepia around the edges of afternoons. Each morning stumbles in from the dark, shaky and a little weak.

We've force-Marched into April, but you always remind me of October. Fall.

I tripped, once. Fell. Landed hard, battered and bruised and bitter.

The bruises have faded, I think. The bitterness sometimes slips away into more of a bittersweet.

Which brings me to today.

This is where I'll leave your note.

I'm sorry. I can't say I didn't mean to bring you fear, anxiety, worry. I meant to give you those things. I wanted you to feel those things. I did that to you. I wish I hadn't done that; it was hurtful and hateful and born of spite and resentment and resistance to inevitable change.

I was absolutely withered. Everything good and right and just had been chewed up and what was left in me was envious and angry. I was poisonous and miserable, and I wanted poison and misery visited on you, too. I'd been done to, and I wanted to do. I spoke in anger, I spoke with hatred. Fury was my world, and our worlds were parted.

My emotions ruled me, and I should have done better.

You told me you were afraid, and I was appalled. I was aroused. I was proud and I was ashamed and I was disgusted and I was pleased.

Mostly, though, I was saddened.

I never wanted you to fear me, but you did. You were afraid of me because of me. I should have done better. I should have been better.

I have done better since then. I learned from us. You taught me. You taught me so much, and only now can I see the lessons written those decades ago. The words are the same, but now they convey different meaning, like shadows flickering in different light.

I've channeled the anger. I've funneled the pain, I've processed the emotions, I've done better with others. There are scars, there are aches, but they're stories and allegories and ways to learn and do better. Be better.

I am better.

I wish you'd see me. I wish we could talk; I wish laughter was our language.

These things can't happen, because there's no bridge to be built. The ashes all floated downstream decades ago. I understand that, and I respect the borders and the boundaries and the barriers. We're worlds apart now, with the light of years between.

Me leaving things alone is the best case for you and for me and for us.

I'd like you to forgive me.

I'm pretty sure you've forgotten me.

I know it's best that I stay here on my side of the world, so I'll leave a note here for you. A note for autumn in the spring, a note for a deciduous love that tries to be evergreen when 'what if' wanders in and whispers poison.

In maudlin moments, I wish you could know I want to walk those 500 miles that separate us, just to be the man you once thought I was. When clarity sharpens my focus on the here and the now, though, I realize how lucky I am to not wake up next to you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ6wJqaE6o4

I used to burst at the seams. My tears ran hot, like blood dripping down an open cut. I sang a song that made me feel at home, and foreign in my own skin, all at once.

I am strong, I repeated to myself. I have values I'd like to uphold. Covid hit, I was yelled at inside a Whole Foods for not following security guidelines. I touched a "dirty basket" and was ostracized. I felt unsafe. I wore an N-95, was made fun of by a conservative guy. Such was life.

The song I sang isn't important. It isn't important for a lot of reasons. The first being: isn't music just an extension of our psyches? Shouldn't it all be celebrated, and not told to follow the rules like a society in ruins?

You touched a dirty basket, said security. Judgement day looks a lot like 2020.

The song made me smile. I am strong, I repeated to myself. I have values I'd like to uphold. I made it through, to the modern day. And I have only luck - and maybe a vaccine - to thank.

The song made me resilient. It reminded me of Taylor Swift - please don't stop reading this. I wanted to feel whole, to be well, to have a mind that didn't rattle like loose glass in a window.

The song made me notice life, in its entirety. It was like a grammatically correct essay, a gun with all its bullets, a lake with swans and full of secret meaning, ecstasy.

It was a way out in a broken environment, a healing touch, a prophecy. Should I keep going? Or is music heard only when it's listened to, and not merely described by a poor writer?

I still feel warm and fuzzy when listening to it. I press my fingers to my temples, bless the feeling, put the "dirty" behind me.

I grew up thinking music wasn't all that important in my family.

It wasn't pervasive like the argumentative silence-- the constant grudge that was held against communication and creativity in general. But I was wrong. Impressions leave a mark, and they are only half-truths, empty indentations, before the long paragraph that would follow as explanation.

Music was part of our myth, after all; the Polyphemus, kneeling, before sound.

I grew up believing I wasn't musical, and competitive as is my nature, I was determined to make up for that deficit. I asked Mother for a flute one year. The year before they would have selected openings for Band. I was eight.

Flute, sax, clarinet, trumpet, or drums. Those were the options for tutoring.

"Ask your grandfather," was the monotone answer behind the magazine, after a long sip of homemade latte. Mother liked a little coffee with her heavy cream, between the lazy trailings of her red tipped dragon companion. Newports.

Her father, Bruno, with deference, was one step from church and God Almighty--

he was Bank.

Promptly, my grandparents returned from a trip to Europe with a lovely hand carved wooden recorder. (Flute, sax, clarinet, trumpet or drums, remember? unless trying out for string orchestra.) Sigh. I was disappointed.  I had no natural ear; otherwise maybe I'd be already mimicking bits of Mozart... with all humility, I knew I needed lessons.

Mother played the piano; and refused to teach us. The basics, to me and my sister. Finger positions, chords...

"I'm not good enough," she sighed pushing some junk mail from side to side.

I persisted.

I wanted a flute. For a very specific pragmatic reason.

It's odd the way things metaphorically distort mentally, in the eye. Stress. They say children lose their distance-vision as a defensive response--to things they fear to see or wish to shut out of their lives.

Listening intently to the inside.

I don't condemn them for it, philosophically. Our parents refused to get us glasses, though both my sister and I "clearly needed" them by mid-elementary years. The admonishment was that the crutch of lenses would make the myopic condition irreversible.

As might be imagined, it made school difficult-- not seeing the board, or math problems, or oncoming persons, or gym balls, etc., etcetera.

I strategized that a flute would secure the comfortable "convincing" distance I'd need to actually see the music sheets, and discretely learn the notes, in sound and name, and the corresponding finger positionings... Music is dynamic like that...

The Bank, reconsidered.

And gave me a beautiful, old, imported Stradivarius.

It was gorgeous. Red carved and lacquered wood with requisite horsehair bow and an amber block of intoxicating pine-scented rosin. They immediately encouraged me to take it out of its ornate case and hold it, under the chin proper, with arms extended... my nine-year-old heart breaking at every silent punctuation of the natural dimensions required.

No, I could not see the music sheet to save my life.

Not only did I have no natural talent to "play by ear," but now with musical notation in front of my face, I was a certified idiot.

I was just awful. Mrs. Bobiak all but said so.

I practiced of course, at home, at odd angles, to memorize the songs so as not to mortify myself, in front of peers, but time and time again, if asked to start at some arbitrary point (on paper) I was at a loss... f*k if I knew what note was what where, and somehow Mrs. Bobiak never grasped that I could not see the sheet...

My sister, on our Father's insistence for fairness, was also given a Stradivarius, the subsequent year; to her bewilderment; and she took the thing with emotional distance. She never saw the issue. She was musical, and voice was her preferred instrument.

As for the violin, she seldom practiced.

To wrap this part of the torturous history, a brief stint in foster care, as well as court appointed healthcare, landed us both in unfashionable, but functional eyeglasses. My sister made rapid progress. Mrs. Bobiak said so and smiled politely at my continued ineptitude.

I continued to grow up believing my family really didn't care for music...

All the perquisites were there, but surrealistically misplaced.

Father, on his part, had recorded with a band of his own devising (...Ciche Mnichi, meaning The Silent Monks) in which he played Banjo. Our family house had a modest collection of unplayed vinyl with the standby labels and titles, Elvis, Roy, Aretha, Beatles, etc... here respectability shattered... the expensive stereo was as if permanently transfixed to a leaky corner of the living room, where water seeped from the cathedral ceiling and made it semi-operable... and upstairs in the library closet, audio cassettes number in the 100's including four sometimes five copies of identical albums... maniacally... still sealed in cellophane, and those hard plastic wrap around handles designed to prevent theft....

And the greatest treasures, of lyric and instrumentals, were bootleg. Wojtek Mlynarski. Maciej Zembaty, Edith Piaf, Leonard Cohen, among others. And some that got transferred over, and over to fresh blanks... Like ABBA and 100 of the World's Most Beautiful Melodies...

As it turned out, Father cared so much for music that he would rather play it in his memory, than suffer a washed-out reality over poor equipment or disintegrated copy. He told me, when he could not suffer another note by Aula Babdul (*on poor mix tape containing the otherwise esteemed Paula Abdul).

Which explains, in part, why music was listened to primarily in the car...

It was Mother who surprised me most, years later... when she met my husband, music fanatic Bunny Villaire, and it turned out they spoke as if the same language, like veritable encyclopedias, referencing fairly obscure gems of music recording...

Mother even voiced the title on his mind an hour before our wedding as he searched his files for just tune as I descended the stairs...

"...play the Power of Love," she suggest. "Perfect," he answered, setting the needle.

I understand now that love of music is kept locked, close to the heart, and emerges at times, spiritually like Gospel or Jazz, improv.

And it is beautiful to take part in Song, whatever the genre; and its counterpart.

The track that comes to mind, as haunting my music experience:

https://youtu.be/qYS0EeaAUMw?si=Yn0rNy6gHhh_JQHR

like a bat out of hell

you were gone in the morning sun

you wanted it you needed it

but you didn't want need me

two out of three is damned

on a hot summer night

you a wolfette

demanding red roses

I gave you my mouth

I gave you my teeth

I gave you my jaws

I gave you my hunger

and you knew that

I would starve without you

but you never ever loved me

oh baby

you were the only thing

in this whole world pure good right

but why you had to get out

you had to break it out of my life

then the sun went out

I'm twisting turning foaming at the mouth

'cause dawn cracked open you were gone I'm so alone

so like a sinner before the gates of heaven

I come crawling knife at my throat

in the gutter bleeding

for crying out loud

you knew I loved you

I have always been drawn to music. Even at seven years of age, my heart and feet beat to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite or a Polonaise by Chopin. I am now considerably older, and through the years, my musical world has evolved to include a diverse array of musical artists, including, but not limited to the Beatles, Cat Stevens, Bruce Springsteen, Jimmy Buffett, Dan Fogelberg, Nirvana, NSYNC, Disturbed, K-Pop, Italian and Spanish vocalists, and many others. Gravitating to music has consistently been an avenue I’ve chosen, through good or bad times, and, if for no other reason because of the sheer wonder of it that never fails to resonate deep within, bringing both solace and joy. Music has never failed to meet me in moments of time not easily forgotten, perhaps due to circumstances found in the moment or simply due to the sheer beauty found in the music. Either way, music has chronicled much of my life.

While listening recently to Pandora recently (Dan Fogelberg Radio), I heard a large assortment of songs by not only Fogelberg himself, but by Jim Croce, Jackson Browne, Carole King, Cat Stevens, and many others, and I was struck by the stark contrast in the songwriting styles of the 70’s and 80’s when compared with more recent compositions. Musicians from the earlier eras seemed to largely fill their lyrics with high emotions, descriptive imagery, and amazing poetry, and in doing so, were able to weave illustrious tales complimented by musical tunes. Indeed, these musicians were not simply lyricists or composers: they were masterful storytellers. This is not to say that today’s musicians do not achieve the same method; however, my perception is that it is more easily evidenced in the songs of past days, as I wish to expand upon in this piece.

………………………..

The late Dan Fogelberg is a big favorite. Not only was he equipped with an angelic voice that covered several octaves or ranges, allowing him to harmonize with himself and do his own background vocals, he was also a poetic genius, musician, composer, and lyricist who could easily play an array of instruments. Fogelberg is largely known for the song, “Same Old Lang Syne”, often played over Christmas holidays. The song details the story of his return home where he unexpectedly encountered his former lover in a convenience store on Christmas Eve. The story – or rather the song – is a special kind of gift in and of itself, not only because of the lyrical magic, but also because of the beauty in its musical composition, which was based upon Tchaikovsky’s “Auld Lang Syne”. I was driving along the interstate on a cold, winter day the very first time I heard this song played across the radio. Of course, the tune was captivating, but even more so, the emotion it evoked was overwhelming, a mixture of joy and regret, encompassed strongly in the lyrics. The song was both wistful and romantic in a tragic sort of way, and as I listened, it struck a chord within me so deeply that I felt I personally knew the man who had written it. To this day, I identify just as much with the bittersweet song now as I did at twenty-three years of age when I first heard it.

“Met my old lover in the grocery store

The snow was falling Christmas Eve

I stole behind her in the frozen foods

And I touched her on the sleeve…..

We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to now

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness

But neither one knew how…..”

Dan Fogelberg, “Same Old Lang Syne” (1981)

Because I fell in love with “Same Old Lang Sang” (and Fogelberg’s voice), I purchased the LP or album from which it originated, a true masterpiece entitled The Innocent Age. The double album is a collection of songs that spins the tale of man’s evolution from the cradle to the grave, each song written and performed by Fogelberg. I can still remember listening to it for the first time, watching it spin around on my stereo turntable while I sat alone in my grandmother’s living room. It was nothing short of sheer magic, and I was engulfed in the spell housed therein, each note and word enchanting. By the second song, I knew the album was more than a mere collection of music – I understood it was a wondrous piece of art and literature. Each song in this album embellishes life in such a unique way that it easily brings personal association and reflection for the listener, resonating in the very crux of one’s soul.

The album goes on to detail man’s evolution, touching on love, family, work, and the days preceding death. The haunting, final song of the collection is entitled “Ghosts”, and what I consider to be one of the greater pieces of poetry in the collection. Together with the echoing, chilling music, the lyrics lead the listener to the precipice of a man’s death:

“Sometimes in the night I feel it

Near as my next breath and yet untouchable

Silently the past comes stealing

Like the taste of some forbidden sweet

Along the walls in shadowed rafters

Moving like a thought through haunted atmospheres

Muted cries and echoed laughter

Banished dreams that never sank in sleep

Lost in love and found in reason

Questions that the mind can find no answers for

Ghostly eyes conspire treason

As they gather just outside the door….”

Dan Fogelberg, “Ghosts” (1981)

Of the many artists I’m fond of, Bruce Springsteen also springs to mind (my apologies, pun intended). While I’ve enjoyed his diverse musical talent for many years, I did not become familiar with him until I attended college in the 70’s. My university, being Southern based, was filled with out-of-state attendees from New York and New Jersey and nearly every one of them was a huge Springsteen fan. His album, Born to Run, was always played at parties I attended. In addition to the title cut from the album (that’s so amazing), “Thunder Road” is also one of my all-time favorite songs. I can’t remember exactly where I was when I first heard this song, but I can definitely remember singing the words out loud with several others whenever it was played – in parties, in cars, in bars – wherever you happened to be. “Thunder Road” is story woven from carefree youthful days and desperate love, a description of someone who is hell bent on going to the ends of the earth in search of fame and fortune - and you’re either with him or you’re not. The song is haunting, engulfed in a force of power, while being wrapped in freedom and youthful destiny.

“A screen door slams, Mary's dress sways

Like a vision she dances across the porch

As the radio plays

Roy Orbison singing for the lonely

Hey, that's me, and I want you only

Don't turn me home again

I just can't face myself alone again….."

Bruce Springsteen, “Thunder Road” (1975)

Admittedly, the music for “Thunder Road” is just as haunting as its lyrics, and both create inviting, vivid imagery for the listener. Who can hear the words Springsteen sings without the sound of a screen door slamming or Roy Orbison’s voice looming in their head? You can feel the eagerness and anticipation in the lyrics so much so that it makes your heart palpitate. As the music and singer crescendo near the song’s completion, you feel excited, exuberant, and ready for whatever life brings. Springsteen’s massive talent and success have easily proven his worth as musician, poet, and storyteller, and this song is among his best. His lyrics have a powerful effect on the listener, as proven time and again over the years with his many songs, scores, and Grammy’s.

I don’t personally know anyone who can deny the appeal of Carole King’s music. I listened to my cassette copy of Tapestry when I was in high school so much that I literally wore the tape out. It was only King’s second LP, but it packed a punch with every song on it becoming a single hit that rocked the Billboard. I have to wonder if every other listener, particularly females, identified as much as I did with King and her lyrics. Her songs encompass the full spectrum of human emotion and weave a wistful tale of love, regret, friendship, and life. The songs on Tapestry are so engrained in my memory that I can still sing along with them whenever they are played.

“One more song about moving along the highway

Can't say much of anything that's new

If I could only work this life out my way

I'd rather spend it being close to you

But you're so far away

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?

It would be so fine to see your face at my door

Doesn't help to know you're so far away

Yeah, you're so far away….."

Carole King, “So Far Away” (1971)

Jimmy Buffett is another music favorite from my college days. My best friend, Barbara, first introduced me to Buffett’s music as we were headed to college in a little green Volkswagen Bug as she proceeded to sing every Buffett tune from his albums Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes and A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean. Being trapped in the car, I had no choice but to listen to her sing his songs for two hours. Needless to say, following her outstanding performance, I remained intrigued by Buffett's lyrics, and I was eager –and curious - to hear the actual albums or Buffett himself. Once I’d done that, just as my friend Barbara had, I fell in love with Buffett and his down-to-earth musical storytelling. It is obvious from the diverse and vast number of songs he’s written that Buffett’s life has been packed full of personal experience and growth, and he details nearly all of it (as well as the lives of those he’s met) in his music and lyrics. My absolute favorite songs by him is “He Went to Paris”, the sad tale of a man’s life that seemed to slip quickly through his fingers during years of marriage, toil, war, and death, but still, in the end, he was appreciative of the life he’d been given, not choosing to regret any second of it.

“While the tears were a' fallin'

He was recallin'

The answers he never found

So he hopped on a freighter

Skidded the ocean

And left England without a sound

Now he lives in the islands

Fishes the pylons

And drinks his green label each day

He's writing his memoirs

And losing his hearing

But he don't care what most people say

Through eighty six years

Of perpetual motion,

If he likes you, he'll smile and he'll say,

"Some of it's magic,

And some of it's tragic,

But I had a good life all the way....."

Jimmy Buffett, "He Went to Paris (1973)

“He Went to Paris” is a lovely, moving, and emotional piece of poetry and music. I will always fondly associate Buffett with my youth and love of the ocean. I spent many an hour listening to his music back then, as well as much later in my years. After all, there is nothing like going to a Buffett concert – it’s an entirely different world and those in attendance, an entirely different species.

…………………….

I have only highlighted a limited number of some of my personal favorites, but by no means are these few the only ones who deserve recognition– in past or current times. Music is a broad, diverse spectrum that reaches out to touch many, and it has enraptured my life for as long as I can recall. The wonder of music has the ability to enable people to connect and understand in ways beyond the scope of their understanding – beyond their imagination or dreams. It gives life to inanimate objects and makes memories alive again, connecting us to the world of today and yesterday, while also forging a path to tomorrow’s unknown mysteries. I thank all of the musical artists and the impact they’ve made upon my life over the years for I cannot imagine a day without the wonder of music, for without it, I would merely exist and cease to live.

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a certified music lover. I am a fool for it...I drool for it. It's my bread and butter. I'm so throughly obsessed that I: A. Work at a Record Store and consider myself a Music Detective; B. Write Songs and head my own band and haven't not been in a band since 2001; C. Have a massive music collection that doubles as my side hustle; D. Dream of one day owning my own Night Club/Record Store; E. Create imaginary scenarios in my head with my fav musicians of how we would hang out and chat if we finally ran into each other in the real world. I know. I'm a bit kooky.

My first album I owned was on Cd and I remember it was my own pick and paved the way for a vast majority of what I listen to which splinters off into many differing sub-genres. This particular gem was MC Hammer's 'Too Legit to Quit'. MC Hammer had it all in my teenage mind. He had a challenging fashion sense; he loved to dance; and he loved to rhyme. Hammer was all about making a splash with his presentation, and it was his gutsy Pop Rap that set the wick of my desire for electronic; funny; atmospheric and sexy music that had a distinct sense of style. The dude wore pants that were called 'parachute pants' and were very hilariously parodied in one of my fav comedy shows in the 90's In Living Color. Hammer also had a lot of good messages in 'Too Legit' that intrigued me to continue to pursue the interest of challenging subject matter that explored discrepancies in race relations and challenges inflicted by a blind society. He did all this with a lightening quick delivery that challenged and demanded reaction in the form of dance! I was 11 when I bought this album, but continued to branch out into differing segues of protest music that had a dance beat up to the present day.

I remember the next step up from this album(though there were differing choices made before this choice that also influenced me, like a handful of tape cassettes by the UK Punk/Goth/Pop/Experimental chaps The Stranglers) was Marvin Gaye's 'What's Going On' that I begged my Mom like an eager beaver with music fever for my 16 year old Birthday. This funky happening piece of art got my blood pumping and I was wowed by the poetry that dripped from Gaye's passionate voice but it lacked Hammer's steady pulse or humorous edge. For this reason it didn't get as many spins as MC. Onward I went to discover more and more music in an attempt to fuse these two elements of Poetry and a Beat driven electronic pulse equipped with a goofy grin.

Indeed I was intrigued by other music in my teens that got my booty shaking and bumping to a more distant shore then any place Hammer may have came from, but Hammer opened many doors for me. As soon as these doors creaked opened I made sure to jam a foot in and keep it lodged in there like a crook who has a sneaky taste for diamonds. Suddenly I was immersed in bands like UK's Underworld, and the solely instrumental UK Ambient/House band Future Sound of London. I wouldn't have given Future Sound a chance if I hadn't first been drawn to the surreal and oddly funny poetry antics of Underworld and their hypnotic Euro House beats with observational ramblings. On my favorite Underworld album strangely dubbed 'Second Toughest In the Infants' Underworld challenged me with surreal lyrics that were disjointed yet beautiful and drove my poetry with their odd feeling based tones. On Jaunita; which was the 1st track on the album, there was magnificent song that kept your interest for it's entire sixteen minute length which was jaw dropping for many in it's extraordinary length. The lyrics to this song were mesmerizing:

"...Homeless strays,

Gathering

Outside your window

Bootleg babies call to you lying among the mosquitos

That summer's fever coming

Cats are gathering

Outside your window

Homeless strays

Bootleg babies,

Calling to you

Lying among

Lie among the mosquitos

Your rails

Your thin

Your thin paper wings

In the wind

Your sun, fly

Danglin

Danglin

Your window shattered in the wind

The sun lying

Your cocacola sign

Your rails

Your thin

Paper wings

Paper wings

Resonator..."

Very William S. Burroughs like indeed who was my favorite writer at the time.

With Future Sound I finally stripped the poetry away altogether and allowed the atmospheric ambience create poetry ideas in my head without the words leading the way. When this dissection of the words occurred I was finally inspired to be a singer and write my own songs. There were sound samples of people talking in Future Sound that kept my fish on the line with their dark humor theme of people in society interacting with an ever increasing mechanized society engulfing their freewill.

I haven't listened to MC Hammer's seminal album for years, but now listening to it I hear elements of House music and Funk that I tumbled down into rabbit hole style which would later metamorphose into Euro House and Italo Disco in terms of my taste. Of course there was also elements of Hip Hop in Hammer, but a slightly modernized version of 80's Rap which is devoid of bad language and showcases a more tongue and cheek element to it that doesn't take itself too seriously. To this day I'm always reminding myself when writing music that an element of humor and child's play must be present in the music process! I do at times use a cuss word or two but they are almost completely subliminal if rarely if at all present.

Thanks to MC Hammer for keeping me drunk on the discovery of new and challenging music buried in the abyss of a hefty pile of records and cds. Music makes life more bearable and is the host at every party! I love the music and won't ever quit! In the world of music there's always a new music tidal wave to surf on, and the treasures at the end of the beach are always great in terms of newly discovered musical bliss boasting a questionable fashion sense.

Too Legit to Quit:

https://youtu.be/wiyYozeOoKs?si=TFP9N6KHg2paEvFt

MC Hammer in parachute pants in 'U Can't Touch This'

This song was why I purchased 'Too Legit to Quit' though it ended up not being on this album:

https://youtu.be/otCpCn0l4Wo?si=6Zq4YjDXkof---ff

4/19/24

Bunny Villaire

on my shoulders makes me happy.

…

You and I are camping with Jenny, camping like we did on the island, when you called me and said you were lonely. We paddled to the shore and hung a hammock and I started biting your lip and pulling at your collar. We had nowhere to be, and that’s why we stayed like that ’til the afternoon sun filtered through the low branches and the brush. And we have nowhere to be now, except around Jenny‘s table. She listens to music by searching songs on Facebook, though she says she only checks it for family news.

You and I are a family now, but I still came from her first. Still, nothing makes more sense than bringing you here to the beach to meet Jenny. The cell that became me was, before Jenny’s daughter was even born, when her womb developed within Jenny’s womb. She carried me before I was my father’s child. I was a part of her when she was a long-haired, barefoot little thing, running on the white sugar sand riverbank, the Jungle Trail. And I was a part of her mother’s mother, who came over in the cargo hold of Turnbull’s slave ships.

How different you and I are. Your fathers came over from Scotland, on the decks of the ships, but not in much better condition than my indentured Spanish mothers. Your Caledonian fathers reached the shore and soon found Indian women in the hills of western Virginia, who became your mothers. They had black hair like Jenny.

…

in my eyes can make me cry.

…

I am Jenny’s granddaughter and I can’t believe I am. She has raven hair, like you do— like I always wished I did, like I still sometimes imagine would grow on our babies’ soft heads. I think the 1/4th of me that is Jenny is recessive, because it sure skipped a few generations. I’ll never be half of the mother she is.

When I was a girl, and too difficult for my momma, I was sent to live down by the water with Jenny. I beat the wall with my fists and yelled obscenities and, on the really bad days, I would dig holes and sit in them. Since she was too afraid to stop me, she didn’t. She shouted at me from the screen room. The hot tears poured down my face and I couldn’t why I didn’t feel a thing, so I stayed quiet. She slammed the screen door, leaving me alone.

She wouldn’t sit with me in my mud puddle; she was strong and thought she could pull me out from the edge of the thing. She couldn’t. I blared my angry music and wallowed.

Her daughter would come get me the next day. I don’t blame Jenny for not being able to fix me, though. She couldn’t have known she had to get down in the mud with me in order to help me out. That’s alright. Jenny is tall, and she is kind, but her emotions steer her vessel. This is why we used to fight so much, before I grew into a woman; I was a woman the day I learned to hold my tongue.

…

on the water is so lovely.

…

Jenny spends every day she can on the gulf, now that she’s at least semi-retired. We kids sit around Jenny’s table on the screen porch, eating the good things she fixed, while she and her middle-aged daughter sit to the side in Adirondack chairs. Her daughter lives in the mountains with her 5 children, far away, but we are visiting for the week. Jenny starts cooking 3 days before the grands arrive, and she is a fine cook. She fried the fish the boys caught last weekend— she used to love being on the water, she says, but so many Yankees have come into town with their big boats and RVs, the fish don‘t bite often enough to suit her anymore. Jenny lets the boys go, staying home with a bit of a headache and with the grandbabies, and with you and me. She says doesn’t need anything more.

…

almost always makes me high.

…

John Denver garbles through her cell phone’s external speaker. She and her daughter laugh loudly, like how you and I laughed last spring in the Subaru with the windows down on that first warm night of the year. The year I found you.

The year you came and sat with me in my mud puddle, then gently asked me if I’d like to try getting up and coming in the house. Once inside, I refused to wipe off my feet and arms, but you made me a sandwich and told me about when you were a child and your mother made you feel so cold that you punched a fence post and broke your hand. I almost didn’t believe you. You are so gentle now.

You told me I could be gentle, too, but I was sure I never could be. You were gentle like a good father, even as a young man. I was a disturbed young woman and a monster and Jenny and her daughter had both given up on me. I told you I was no mother, that I couldn’t carry the 3 babies you always dreamed of, and that you should give up, too.You said I was in no shape be a mother, because who could bring up children in that kind of environment? But you would dig through the mud with me for as long as it took. You told me you believed I could dig, too, and what’s more: you believed I would. You knew that’s what I really wanted. More than to sit and wallow, I wanted to dig and get out.

Jenny and her daughter may have made me, but didn’t know me as well as you did. They didn’t trust me, either. It’s not their fault. They each had to dig through their own mud and learn to laugh in their own sweet time. I hope I have time enough to become their daughter and their granddaughter again, now that I have grown into a woman. The first step is listening to music with them on the screen porch whose door used to slam.

I pray to God I have time. Jenny slaps her knees and my mother spills her iced tea. ”Sunshine almost all the time makes me high,” Denver’s clear tenor croons from the grave.

I am still one of five siblings, and still a child at that. I feel distant from these two women who have grown to rise above the din. I am still very much in it. I still care what others think about me.

And though Jenny and her daughter both love you, getting up to add another helping to your plate, refill your glass, and pat your back, they think me naïve. To be so in love with man seems foolish to them. They have both seen enough bad men to believe that a man’s heart is an amusing and silly thing at best.

The song is over and they head to the kitchen to clean up the supper dishes, cackling happily all the way. I don’t often laugh around them, and I don’t laugh now. But you know and I know that on good days, I have the same huge, boisterous laugh as those two great women. That much doesn’t skip a generation.

…

Frolicking high notes danced into my ears, aimed straight for my heart. A part of my soul awakened for the first time that day. I never heard something so enchanting, at the same time so haunting.

The melody was an arranged marriage of pain and joy; I had found my new drug. Celtic music introduced me to my love for all things Irish and Scottish including my heritage which was nonexistent before.

With every lilt of the penny whistle and rolling thunder of the bodhrán, my ancestors seem to reach out across the centuries. They remind me of the many sacrifices made so that I would not suffer the same, as well as the battles fought to renew my strength for the challenges I face.

My music feed has been mostly radio. Muesli as such, with the premix and hodgepodge invitation for infiltration of the psyche. I speak of the random input of compilation by dj. Music not sought out, and I recognize it, Life like, not controlled by me despite having some dials to twist: to the left or right; up or down; on or off. A bit more treble or bass if my equipment was up to snuff, which varied widely. To call up a song-- on demand-- that was a power of disc/cassette I just didn't have for a very long time. By which I mean purchase, not in dollars, but in the means to go fetch.

Let it be known, I grew up in the official Boondogs.

Pointing the antenna took considerable learned skill.

As did capturing songs on mix tape...

Residing on the East coast mountains, it would seem that the feed would be mostly from the Tristate area, and predominantly NYC as largest hub.

I listened to AM and FM. The AM very poor in connection and rapidly changing. Staples were actually WMU (*that's Western Michigan University Public Radio) based NPR, and Temple University Radio (*a Philadelphia broadcast from what I was later "informed" was a black leaning school, from former professor...). NPR is where I tuned into for classics, but also to find occasional wonders like "Who Shall I Say is Calling?" which when unattributed prompted a flood of questioners and the All Things Considered main guy returned shortly with a statement of apology to listeners.... Guess they didn't really think we were listening....

https://youtu.be/6VHQq-XTSEk?si=4Bw1KWcYayrSYSLZ

Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah & Songs from his Album

Early morning public university radio played stuff local radio didn't like Euro Beat tunes and stuff in foreign languages (French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Scandinavian). I'm still looking for that fun foreign accented tune with English refrain... hey, hey, supergirl...

One of the first cassettes I ever owned, given to me for Christmas, fresh, age 10 was:

https://youtu.be/TIQyAitAcPk?si=oJslHOtysCtoQmiehttps://youtu.be/LCzgsZi_zfg?si=2oH_bAFb9klWkOGR

Beats International - Let them Eat Bingo

Jazz, funk and swing, especially electroswing are my blood type. And that's where Temple University radio was a sustainer. One of my first vinyls insisted on, later:

https://youtu.be/HFz1RbQg9gE?si=OTnrFDsMmVL-BRkw

Dave Brubeck Quartet - Time Out

Sure, I listened to local pop radio as well, and Casey Cason's Top 40 weekend countdown, and it was informative to a time... until Clear Channel swept through and started buying up stations and stacking the same cue of tracks on rerun. No matter what local station you tuned your dial, it seemed suddenly Clear Channel was sitting on it, and playing the same stuff over and over and even in the same damn sequence day after day. Maybe I listened to intently or too often; it really seemed a blatant take over of the airwaves. And I stopped listening.

I started buying CDs, and now mp3s.