(Not Quite) Out to Pasture: I Feel a Song Coming On

BY: CURTIS COMER

    It’s funny how music can magically transport the listener back in time. Like the scent of perfume or the smell of coffee brewing, it can remind us of long-lost friends, short-lived loves and sunny picnic tables that we had all but forgotten with the passage of time. Taste in music, too, can tell a lot about the listener and even divulge his age.

    Greco-Roman mythology says that Apollo, son of Zeus and brother of Artemis, is the god of music. Given music’s "magical" qualities, it’s no wonder that the ancients attributed its creation to deity. Music can make us want to dance or to cry; it can propel us to great heights of ecstasy and plunge us into bottomless sorrow. Music has been used to stir patriotism, strengthen the faithful and embolden the masses. It can be heard in the song of the lark, the purring of a contented cat, the rustling of the leaves and in the steady cadence of raindrops.

    I’ve always loved music of all kinds; from old country (Patsy Cline is my favorite) to bluegrass, to rock to hip hop and everything in between. As a youngster, I fancied myself a songwriter and penned the family tunes "Truckin’ Ninety" (written for my toddler brothers, who seemed to bolt down the hallway at amazing speeds, seemingly out of their control) and "When You Want to Get Drunk (In the City)."

    You would have to have been there.

    When I was a teenager I drove my poor parents crazy listening to classical music, the heavy strains of Beethoven booming from my stereo speakers and then, later, New Wave.

    Tim and I share an iPod, and it is loaded with all kinds of music; pop music from the twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, sixties and all the way up to Lady Gaga; country music, old and new, bluegrass, dance, disco, Motown, classical, you name it. Unfortunately, it seems that whenever we have friends over, either Judy Garland or Cher comes into rotation, branding us as Gay, with a capital G.

    "Why is Judy Garland on here?" I nervously chuckle as I forward to the next track, feeling like a parody of the old queen in an ascot.

    In my small hometown there is a diner called the High Winds Café. I don’t recall what it was originally called, but it got its current name because a tornado destroyed the original café when I was a small kid. Later, after my parents separated, my mom would take me and my three younger brothers there to eat. It was a difficult time for her, working two jobs and raising four little boys on her own, barely making ends meet. I suppose that my mom considered our visits to the High Winds Café to be a little treat for us, and she carefully doled out dimes for us to play the juke box, my favorite part of those visits. I particularly remember 1972. I was just six and knew that I was "in charge" of my younger brothers. Mom would order a cup of coffee for herself and then plates (usually burgers and fries) for me and my brothers. What we didn’t eat, Mom would take, a fry here, a bit of uneaten burger there. But she held her head high and would send us with our dimes to the juke box, usually with requests. She especially liked "Rockin’ Robin" by Michael Jackson and "Happiest Girl (In the Whole USA)" by Donna Fargo. I loved everything on the juke box, though, and the big songs of that year were some of my favorites. "Burning Love," "Lean on Me," "Let’s Stay Together," "Brandy," "The First Time (Ever I Saw Your Face)" and "American Pie" were played often, alongside the old standards by Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash.

    Years later, when I was living in San Francisco, I couldn’t listen to those songs without feeling a profound sadness for my mom and everything she had sacrificed for me and my brothers way back in 1972. But time has a way of healing us and, what was once sadness has now turned into a kind of bittersweet nostalgia. A few years back, Trisha Yearwood recorded the single "The Song Remembers When," and it basically said lyrically what I’m saying now: "even if the whole world has forgotten, the song remembers when."

    I guess that’s the magic that is music.

    Tim and I have recently been watching infomercials. I know…lame. But as music lovers, there’s something kind of fun about catching those half hour, Time-Life infomercials peddling the "Hits of the Seventies" or "Classic Country Music Collection." We know we shouldn’t waste our time and yet, watching the accompanying video footage of the artists performing their hits is like gawking at a bad car accident: as much as you want to and know you should, you can’t look away. And, admittedly, it’s also amusing to see what has-been they dig up to plug their collection. (I mean, Mickey Gilley as spokes-person for the country music collection? I guess that George Jones was busy.)

    Last night, after finishing the last DVD of The Wire, we were caught, yet again by an infomercial, this one plugging a music collection of the hits of the seventies. As usual, we giggled at the video footage like a couple of miscreant school boys. I mean, really, what was up with Toni Tennille’s hair and was the Captain really a Captain? When Roberta Flack appeared on the screen, however, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I tried to play it off, but too late. Tim put his hand on my leg.

    "Is it the High Winds?" he whispered.

    Yeah, he knows all of my darkest little secrets.

    No, I wanted to say. Somehow the song makes me think of you and the first time I met you, of how young and beautiful you were and how happy I am to have been your partner for almost eighteen years. But I didn’t. I don’t think I could have managed.

    Yes, I’m what you might call a softie….or a romantic, depending on your point of view.

    So sue me.