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| My Favorite Dance Partner |
In order to fully appreciate this post, I ask that you click the music links. That way you get a feel for my love for music, and a peek into our kitchen where the music happened.
I have been obsessed with music for as far back as my memories go. Music is so enmeshed in my genetic make-up that I don’t think I could function without it. Basically, I can’t live without music. It’s a bold statement, I know: It’s the truth.
Some of my first steps were probably dance moves, wiggling my little diapered bum in time to the music. And some of my first accidents were because I didn’t have enough balance yet, and danced myself face first into the bricks surrounding our fireplace. My father loves to tell that story, by the way. And it happened 35 years ago. *sigh*
I loved hearing the tunes in my ears. I didn’t know what band it was, I didn’t know who was singing, but the moment my parents threw the needle on the record, I was in heaven. My earliest memories of music are of my Mom singing to me while strumming on her guitar. She had the prettiest voice, and I remember feeling warm and safe when she sang to me. Sometimes it was The Beatles. Sometimes it was Carole King. It was always Leonard Cohen. I knew the words to So Long, Marianne before I knew the words to Raffi’s Baby Beluga.
My parents always made sure there was music in our home. We had a very fancy turntable and stereo system. We even had speakers in OTHER rooms in the house, and it was the 1970’s. That’s some very advanced technology. Although there was plenty of kiddie music to go around, like Sharon, Lois and Bram, Raffi, Fred Penner and Free To Be, You And Me, I was obsessed with all of my parents’ music. This song by Flamenco Fever Hands and Feet made me go insane with joy when my Dad played it. The clapping, the stomping and the beat: I went nuts for it. I stomped my little feet, slapped my hands together and laughed my face off. I think there is probably incriminating video somewhere, my Dad tends to keep all of my embarrassing moments on tape.
We grew up in a house filled with music. Our vinyl collection was insane. As a kid, my Mom gave me the important job of making sure the albums weren’t out of order. Beatles with Beatles, in order of year. James Taylor’s albums needed to be at the front of the pack so she could see his face, her “Sweet Baby James.” My Dad is planning on living to be 107 years old so that the fight between Adam and I over who gets the Iron Butterfly album is delayed. I even remember locking myself in the bathroom with Heart’s self-titled album in 1990, trying to get my eye make-up to look like Nancy Wilson’s.
In a previous post I mentioned that whenever my Mom was cooking, she would put on The Beatles. Her favorite song was Rocky Raccoon, and she taught my brother and I the words so we could sing it with her. She loved music with a story, just as I do now. She once taught me the words to Why Don't We Do It In The Road, with a funny little smile on her face. She explained Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds to me. I grew up in my kitchen, watching her cook, learning about music. Listening to the lyrics, and soaking it all in. I’m guessing my strange ability to learn and recite lyrics after one listen is due to my Mom’s instructions to “open my ears”. I can’t remember where I put my keys, but ask me the lyrics to any song and I probably know them.
Every time Julia came on, my Dad would stroll into the kitchen and sing to her, giving her a little squeeze as he walked through. Julia was her full name. Judi was the name she preferred. To this day, I have a fairly intense reaction to hearing that song. It’s like I am instantly back in my Mom’s kitchen, watching my parents love each other, while a song about a beautiful girl with seashell eyes and a windy smile plays on. I miss those days so much I ache. I ache for a time when things were simple. And the only things that mattered were love and music.
My mother and I shared love, music and a car, and there was always some CD or other already loaded, ready to go before she even put her seatbelt on. Road trips required some very essential CDs, like the Gipsy Kings, Emo Philips comedy, and James Taylor. One time when we’d had a fight, my mother left her love note to me in the car. A post-it note on the steering wheel said “Put on song #7, from me to you. Love Mom.” And when I did, Carole King’s beautiful voice came out of the speakers, singing You’ve Got A Friend. Music said things we weren’t brave enough to say. It said with lyrics what was in our hearts when we were at a loss for words.
Even at weddings, I never needed to bring a date. If my parents were going to be there, I danced with them. So did everyone else, for that matter. They knew how to get a party going, and danced long after the “old folks” had gone to sit down and pick at the sweet table. My Dad even has a specific dance move that I love. And whenever our song comes on, Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke he is nimble on his feet, busting that move with me with a smile on his face.
If you think I’m a little music obsessed, I got it from Dad. He’s a music freak. I’ve made him numerous mixed tapes and CDs over the years, introducing him to The Avett Brothers, Rufus Wainwright, and other artists he’d not listened to before. Whenever I go home to visit, he guilt trips me with this sentence: “You haven’t given me any new music lately.” His musical collection rivals mine. He’s been at it longer than me, natch. Being able to share music with my Dad makes me so happy. Above all else, we have bonded over music. We have healed our hearts while listening to bluegrass. We have laughed while my Dad dances around to My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas. I also am shaking my head that I just linked to that song. What a difference 30+ years make.
I love music so much that I’ve gone so far as to not want to date someone who doesn’t love it as much as I do. This is crazy, I know. I live according to Nietzsche’s quote: "Without music, life would be an error." So to, would be dating someone who doesn’t love music. When telling a friend about someone new and special in my life, she asked me: “But Amy, does he love music as much as you do?” I’m true to my heart, if not totally predictable. Oh, and yes he does: This someone is so special that he surprised me with tickets to see Leonard Cohen in concert.
I can attribute songs to my favorite memories of my Mom, for nearly every year of my life. Truly, my Mom was music for me. She was, and always will be my favorite song. Music and memories are built to last. Our job is to make sure to play the tunes and tell the stories that mean something to us.
Music you have healed me. You have propelled me forward. You have opened my heart and mind. Without you, Music, I never would have known my Mom or Dad. And I certainly wouldn’t dance in my kitchen while cooking, just like when I was a kid.
And as John Lennon sang for his late mother, Julia, I write to my Mom in this blog post: “When I cannot sing my heart, I can only speak my mind…”
I have been obsessed with music for as far back as my memories go. Music is so enmeshed in my genetic make-up that I don’t think I could function without it. Basically, I can’t live without music. It’s a bold statement, I know: It’s the truth.
Some of my first steps were probably dance moves, wiggling my little diapered bum in time to the music. And some of my first accidents were because I didn’t have enough balance yet, and danced myself face first into the bricks surrounding our fireplace. My father loves to tell that story, by the way. And it happened 35 years ago. *sigh*
I loved hearing the tunes in my ears. I didn’t know what band it was, I didn’t know who was singing, but the moment my parents threw the needle on the record, I was in heaven. My earliest memories of music are of my Mom singing to me while strumming on her guitar. She had the prettiest voice, and I remember feeling warm and safe when she sang to me. Sometimes it was The Beatles. Sometimes it was Carole King. It was always Leonard Cohen. I knew the words to So Long, Marianne before I knew the words to Raffi’s Baby Beluga.
My parents always made sure there was music in our home. We had a very fancy turntable and stereo system. We even had speakers in OTHER rooms in the house, and it was the 1970’s. That’s some very advanced technology. Although there was plenty of kiddie music to go around, like Sharon, Lois and Bram, Raffi, Fred Penner and Free To Be, You And Me, I was obsessed with all of my parents’ music. This song by Flamenco Fever Hands and Feet made me go insane with joy when my Dad played it. The clapping, the stomping and the beat: I went nuts for it. I stomped my little feet, slapped my hands together and laughed my face off. I think there is probably incriminating video somewhere, my Dad tends to keep all of my embarrassing moments on tape.
We grew up in a house filled with music. Our vinyl collection was insane. As a kid, my Mom gave me the important job of making sure the albums weren’t out of order. Beatles with Beatles, in order of year. James Taylor’s albums needed to be at the front of the pack so she could see his face, her “Sweet Baby James.” My Dad is planning on living to be 107 years old so that the fight between Adam and I over who gets the Iron Butterfly album is delayed. I even remember locking myself in the bathroom with Heart’s self-titled album in 1990, trying to get my eye make-up to look like Nancy Wilson’s.
In a previous post I mentioned that whenever my Mom was cooking, she would put on The Beatles. Her favorite song was Rocky Raccoon, and she taught my brother and I the words so we could sing it with her. She loved music with a story, just as I do now. She once taught me the words to Why Don't We Do It In The Road, with a funny little smile on her face. She explained Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds to me. I grew up in my kitchen, watching her cook, learning about music. Listening to the lyrics, and soaking it all in. I’m guessing my strange ability to learn and recite lyrics after one listen is due to my Mom’s instructions to “open my ears”. I can’t remember where I put my keys, but ask me the lyrics to any song and I probably know them.
Every time Julia came on, my Dad would stroll into the kitchen and sing to her, giving her a little squeeze as he walked through. Julia was her full name. Judi was the name she preferred. To this day, I have a fairly intense reaction to hearing that song. It’s like I am instantly back in my Mom’s kitchen, watching my parents love each other, while a song about a beautiful girl with seashell eyes and a windy smile plays on. I miss those days so much I ache. I ache for a time when things were simple. And the only things that mattered were love and music.
My mother and I shared love, music and a car, and there was always some CD or other already loaded, ready to go before she even put her seatbelt on. Road trips required some very essential CDs, like the Gipsy Kings, Emo Philips comedy, and James Taylor. One time when we’d had a fight, my mother left her love note to me in the car. A post-it note on the steering wheel said “Put on song #7, from me to you. Love Mom.” And when I did, Carole King’s beautiful voice came out of the speakers, singing You’ve Got A Friend. Music said things we weren’t brave enough to say. It said with lyrics what was in our hearts when we were at a loss for words.
Even at weddings, I never needed to bring a date. If my parents were going to be there, I danced with them. So did everyone else, for that matter. They knew how to get a party going, and danced long after the “old folks” had gone to sit down and pick at the sweet table. My Dad even has a specific dance move that I love. And whenever our song comes on, Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke he is nimble on his feet, busting that move with me with a smile on his face.
If you think I’m a little music obsessed, I got it from Dad. He’s a music freak. I’ve made him numerous mixed tapes and CDs over the years, introducing him to The Avett Brothers, Rufus Wainwright, and other artists he’d not listened to before. Whenever I go home to visit, he guilt trips me with this sentence: “You haven’t given me any new music lately.” His musical collection rivals mine. He’s been at it longer than me, natch. Being able to share music with my Dad makes me so happy. Above all else, we have bonded over music. We have healed our hearts while listening to bluegrass. We have laughed while my Dad dances around to My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas. I also am shaking my head that I just linked to that song. What a difference 30+ years make.
I love music so much that I’ve gone so far as to not want to date someone who doesn’t love it as much as I do. This is crazy, I know. I live according to Nietzsche’s quote: "Without music, life would be an error." So to, would be dating someone who doesn’t love music. When telling a friend about someone new and special in my life, she asked me: “But Amy, does he love music as much as you do?” I’m true to my heart, if not totally predictable. Oh, and yes he does: This someone is so special that he surprised me with tickets to see Leonard Cohen in concert.
I can attribute songs to my favorite memories of my Mom, for nearly every year of my life. Truly, my Mom was music for me. She was, and always will be my favorite song. Music and memories are built to last. Our job is to make sure to play the tunes and tell the stories that mean something to us.
Music you have healed me. You have propelled me forward. You have opened my heart and mind. Without you, Music, I never would have known my Mom or Dad. And I certainly wouldn’t dance in my kitchen while cooking, just like when I was a kid.
And as John Lennon sang for his late mother, Julia, I write to my Mom in this blog post: “When I cannot sing my heart, I can only speak my mind…”
