Sixty-Two -- And Music

I should be in a more reflective mood today, I suppose, since I have turned sixty-two. When my mom was forty, I thought she was ancient. Looking back, forty was actually pretty good. Every birthday is good, and bad, in its own special way. This year I decided to revel in it. I learned well the lesson (thanks Mom) to never call attention to myself. But I decided today to pay attention to myself. I'm pretty easy to please -- I turned on Sirius and searched my favorite channels for songs to mark the day. I found three that essentially sum up my weird musical history:

1. "It's A Beautiful Morning" by the Rascals
2. "I Wish I Could Fall In Love Today" by Barbara Mandrell
3. "Glory Days" by Bruce Springsteen

(I danced in my chair to that last one.)

What have I learned this year?

Well, I learned that just when I thought music was all in the past, I still love it. Thank you, Sirius Radio. As I gaze about this room, I see approximately 300 CD's, which I never play. They've become part of the decor. In a bookcase in the hall sits all the albums I've possessed since the mid-sixties. I never ever toss one on the turntable. My external hard drive holds songs I really wanted and didn't have until Amazon offered me anything I ever wanted. I never click on my music player. It took Sirius to remind me that I still love music. I don't have to make any choices other than which of my favorite stations is playing a song I want to hear right now. Based on my Sirius experience, I estimate there are approximately 10,000 songs I really like - give or take a thousand. Of course, when one has been on this earth for sixty-two years, they accumulate a lot of favorites. And they forget a bunch of them.

I've learned that music is my best friend. It'll never have a snit and stomp off because of something I've said or didn't say. If I feel sad, music will accommodate me. If I feel like chair-dancing, shoot, music is right there egging me on. If I want to sing, music offers lots of harmonies, at least one of which I can latch onto.

Life's circle.

Right now on Sirius, The Shirelles are singing, "Will You Love Me Tomorrow". My big sister played that record in 1961. I was six years old and I remember seeing the red 45 spinning on her turntable.

"Oh, Pretty Woman" is playing now. Wow, that song, in 1964, was a revelation. I watched Roy Orbison in his sunglasses perform that song on the Lloyd Thaxton Show in my uncle's dark living room. Nineteen sixty-four essentially set my life's path.

Now I'm hearing "A White Sport Coat". The very first concert I attended was a Marty Robbins performance my mom took me to in Grand Forks, North Dakota. I was maybe five? My mom urged me to go up after the show and get Marty's autograph, but I was too shy.

Most every song I hear dredges up a memory. I wonder sometimes how many memories I've lost that would be recovered if only the right song turned up on my Sirius playlist.

"Norwegian Wood" came from the best Beatles album of all time -- "Rubber Soul". If a voice seeps into one's soul, John Lennon's is the one for me. I think it's an organic thing. I can't explain it.

"Bye Bye Love":  Well, again, 1964. I had a little trio with my two cousins, and this was the only song I got to sing lead on. "There goes my baby..." I can't tell you how proud I was to be able to sing lead on that song.

It's too bad one can't make money knowing music inside and out, because I guess I would have the market cornered. Name a song and I can give you a dissertation on the state of the world when that song was popular. Unfortunately, it's a talent not much in demand. I'm still glad I have it, though.

So, as my birthday winds down, I figured I would post videos of the first three songs I listed in this post:

(Sorry if an ad plays before this song, but somebody (Bruce?) decided that ads before great videos were a good thing):

That one makes me happy, and it's a great finishing touch for today.

Through these sixty-two years I've also heard enough bad songs to know what good songs are. But even the bad songs evoke fond memories, if only because they made me laugh with friends.

What You Remember

The good news is, you remember more than you think you do.

The disturbing news is, the things you think you remember diverge dangerously from what you actually remember.

How do I know? I've been listening to Sirius Radio, specifically Prime Country and Willie's Roadhouse. Listening to these channels has caused a brushfire to burst inside my brain.

I've discovered a trove of embalmed remembrances; scattered jigsaw pieces that couldn't fuse with their silvery counterparts without a flash of jagged lightning.

Ray Price, Alabama, the Oak Ridge Boys; forgotten George Strait tracks, Lori Morgan, Patty Loveless, Faron Young singing a Kris Kristofferson song; recalling that the track was included on an album titled, "Precious Memories". Remembering the album cover -- a grey-tinged photo of Faron. Warbling along to "Heartaches By The Number". Charlie Walker singing a song called, "San Diego" that my best friend Alice and I harmonized with when it played on the radio. Wynn Stewart. Loretta Lynn's "Honky Tonk Girl". Barbara Mandrell when she was edgy.

As the song goes, I've forgotten more than you'll ever know.

Merle Haggard singing, "Are The Good Times Really Over".

Songs I didn't necessarily like when they were new. Songs I really liked when they were new, but somehow forgot about. Songs that conjure a time and a place and the expensive Bang and Olufsen speakers I signed my life over to purchase in 1980 when my boys were tiny waifs, and now they're forty. And how did the years slip by so stealthily?

Songs like "Burning Memories" that bring my dad back to me.

Hearing these songs make me happy but sad. Sad and aching for what I can't get back. I miss my dad. I hope I get to see him again someday. But I don't know. I'm agnostic on that topic.

Sad and aching for my boys who've moved on and who've forgotten the moments we once shared. Forgotten that it was me who set them on their path, like my dad set me on mine. Everything is a chain; we just don't see it until time and longing plop us down in that place. In a perfect world, we'd remember the important things before they're gone. But we're not perfect -- we only see what's before our eyes. I took my dad for granted when he was with me. I'd like to have him here; talk to him; let his wisdom stuff my heart. My dad was the only person in my life who could ever teach me something I didn't already know.

All I am is a result of my dad. Dad and the music he loved.

Sure, I formed my own loves. Music Dad didn't understand. That's kind of what kids do. That's life's progression. But we always come back, don't we? One day, we come back.

Sorry for these sentimental waxings. I guess I'm in a nostalgic mood tonight. Music tends to do that. As a songwriter, I should know that, but it's different when you're in the zone -- you focus on the moment and don't consider the bludgeon of memory.

We all have those -- those things we forgot but remember. They might be tied to our dad or our mom or to somebody else who bathed our lives in light.

It's a damn glorious thing.