Music Machine

Growing up, even before I was a certified dork with a worldview the size of my permed bangs, I loved music. I would listen to Casey Kasem’s “golden voice” (as Dad called it; he listened, too) on America’s Top Forty each Sunday afternoon, my ear glued to the giant speaker, radio dial set to K92 FM, with giddy anticipation. Who would be in the top ten? Who would have the top spot?! For God’s sake, why does this have to take all afternoon?!!!! I can’t stand the excitement! No, Ma, I can’t dust the forty Encyclopedia Britannicas--Casey’s on!

When I was younger, I had albums. Actual, physical LPs, gently tucked into their sleeves. My first musical crush was on Mac Davis. Oh, Mac, how I loved you. You and your big, curly hair and velvety smooth voice. My five-year-old self could not get enough of this man who sure knew how to get his groove on. I must’ve played “Something’s Burning” until the vinyl did, in fact, burn.

The Saturday Night Fever soundtrack (the cover to which actually opened to reveal the wonder of pictures inside!). The Jazz Singer soundtrack (yes, the Jazz Singer). Shawn Cassidy. Michael Jackson. My sister and I elaborately choreographed a little dance ditty set to “Let’s Get Physical,” by Olivia Newton John. I felt it in my soul.

Then, as I got older, I discovered the beauty of the 45. I would save my babysitting money, head to the record store at Tanglewood Mall, and flip through the 45s, looking for those amazing, brilliant songs Casey had introduced me to. Ultimately, my collection consisted of probably hundreds of 45s. “Centerfold,” “Come on Eileen,” “My Sharona,” “Africa” . . . these I would play over and over and over, gently resting the needle on that outer thick line of the vinyl, placing a penny ever-so-gingerly on top to avoid the skipping that had the potential of ruining my groove (no pun intended). 

I would play “Careless Whisper,” by those sexy Brits, Wham!, over and over again, crying harder each time. How did they know? How could they so beautifully express the teenage angst that was welling up within me at that very moment as I pined over the boy I had a crush on, the one who thought we were just good friends. “Yes,” I said aloud, without the faintest hint of melodrama, “You get it. You know, Andrew and George, you hunky men in the shorty shorts. You, too, have been in love with a member of the opposite sex and had it hurt so bad that you had to sing about it.”

I was so young.

Next came actual cassette tapes that I could play on my actual boom box. I believe the first tape I ever owned was Prince’s 1999. The purchase of this cassette began a long, passionate relationship between me and The Artist, one that continues today. But 1999 holds a special, covert spot in my little red heart . . . because it was naughty. Two words: Darling Nikki.

This was the first song that was banned in the Rothschild house. My mother, Tipper Gore, decided it was inappropriate and forbade me to listen to it. So of course, I found ways to listen to it. I would shut my door, turn my boom box way down low, close to the “zero” on the volume knob, lie down on my pink shag carpet with my ear as close to the speakers as I possibly could. I would listen intently, heart racing . . . trying to figure out what in the world any of the song meant. Why was it forbidden, raising the eyebrows and ire of adults all around? I better listen again . . .  

By the way, the other song? “She Bop,” by Cyndi Lauper. At that age, I never knew why, but now, listening to it, it grosses me out that my parents even “got it.” (“They say you better stop, or you’ll go blind.” Need I say more?)

Once I discovered tapes, listening to Casey K became an adventure in determination and an exercise in precision. There were exactly 0.53 seconds to press “play” and “record” simultaneously, else I miss a millisecond of the Wisdom of Toto. With these new and amazing songs on the radio AND on mix tapes I made MYSELF? Well, the world was my Billy Ocean.

I am not lying when I say "big hair." That's me, with the blue sweater and matching blue eyeliner.

As an older teenager, the advent of CDs brought me to a new level: cheesy. No longer was I just dorky, but I was super duper cheesy. The perm got bigger and so did the Firenze sweaters. My music repertoire (which, as a side note, makes me want to vomit today) consisted of the Steve Miller Band's Greatest Hits, the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, and more Neil Diamond. Sure, there were hints that taste resided deep inside my musical soul: the first CDs I bought, after all, were R.E.M., Terrence Trent D’Arby, and Sign of the Times (We meet again, Prince.). But mostly it was all cheese, all the time. Casey Kasem still dictated my likes and dislikes. 

In college, something changed. I evolved. I owe most of it to my ex-boyfriend, a musician (girls: swoon now) who introduced me to true music. Real, live, good music. The Replacements and the songwriting genius of Paul Westerberg. Drivin’ and Cryin’, the Connells, Husker Du, the BoDeans, and dozens and dozens more. I knew exactly when a new CD was coming out; I would buy it and listen to it in my dorm room repeatedly until I knew every word. The ex-boyfriend would make me mix tapes (girls: swoon again) with amazing artists, beautiful songs, and intensity the likes of which I had never experienced through the Bee Gees. 

And I made friends who had my best musical exposure interest in their hearts. The best thing that ever happened to me, musically of course, came the day my friend Charles threw my Dirty Dancing soundtrack cassette tape out of my car window. Sure, it hurt. But only for a minute. 

I had found music.

Ever since I was 18, it’s played such an important part of who I am that I still regularly daydream of being a female lead singer and regularly practice my go-to cover songs in the car (one of which is “Shimmer,” by Throwing Muses, in case anyone's hiring). Now, at the age of 41, music defines me. Truly. I look forward to live shows of bands I love with the same giddiness that once led me to sit on the stage, right under Kevn Kinney, swooning under his sweaty face. Sure, I may have to (as was the case at a recent New Pornographers show) purchase a pair of earplugs from the bartender. And yes, I’d rather sit than stand and get beer spilled all over me (unless I’m seeing Morrissey, when standing five feet from him was too much of a once-in-a-lifetime experience to pass up). 

My girls are headed in the direction of some fine music-lovin’, too. Cammie’s love of Elvis borders on obsession, as does Kylie’s love of Taylor Swift. I approve of both of these, and I have a great time listening to their music with them. There’s nothing that makes me more excited than overhearing Cammie belting out a Mumford & Sons tune or Kylie humming along to Rilo Kiley. Even Mike, he who once asked me if a song was sung by “Three Blind Melons,” is becoming more and more musically inclined. I’m impressed, so I burned him a copy of the new ADELE cd the other day as a thank you.

What will I do when I’m 60? Still go to shows? Listen to songs cranked up high while cruising in the minivan? Still alternate between downloading the new 50 Cent and Shins songs? Yes, probably. And likely, I’ll still get angry at crappy songs I’ve heard 500 times in my life, still inexplicably playing on the radio today (see also: “In the Air Tonight,” [or, really, anything] by Phil Collins) 

But I’ll also need music as much as I need it now, a fact that became clear when I was on chemo and any sound, from ice crunching to bell ringing to song singing, was simply too much. I missed my music, and when I finally went for that first long drive one night, iPod on shuffle and the open country roads of Goochland County ahead of me, it felt right again. It felt right because music is the piece of me that’s 100 percent, always and always, mine. Not dictated by who I am as a wife, mother, employee, friend, or volunteer. It’s mine, and it reminds me of who I am.

And I haven’t even started on the Modern Miracle that is Pandora.