Truth be told, I’ve been a wreck for months.
My anxiety is sky-high, my creativity ocean-floor low. All thanks to an invisible virus and the all-too-visible havoc it has wreaked on our world, our country, our state, our community, our families, our spirits.
This damn virus has killed more than 283,000 Americans and counting. It has crippled the economy and created a world of confusion, politically charged misinformation, and paranoia. (Hey, what do you know? It’s not fake, not a hoax, and didn’t disappear on November 4th …)
Many days, like many people feeling the same way, the stress caused by this emotional/spiritual dragnet has also pulled me down physically. I sleep. Eat right. Exercise when I can. Yet I often go through the day feeling like I’ve been through three rounds with Mike Tyson in his prime.
But I am never completely sunk. Because when all else fails, I always have my secret weapon: music.
Reading is relaxing. Writing is rewarding. But music is magical.
It soothes me, sapping away the angst, or filling my mental tank. Speaking to the crisis du jour or the eternal human condition (both usually having something to do with love and relationships of one kind or another) I listen to a wide and eclectic range of music.
My collection numbers tens of thousands of songs spanning everything from jazz to country to folk to rock to blues to R&B, soul, funk, classical, marching band, opera. You name it, I’ve probably got it somewhere, or had it at one time or another.
I am, literally, that guy who had hundreds of LP records (including some 78s from my grandmother) and 45 singles, replaced them all with cassettes, replaced those with CDs, only to replace them with thousands of digital songs on my iPod and now my phone.
(A few years ago, as CDs replaced vinyl, I carted hundreds of albums to one of those shops that buys used records and sold them for a couple hundred bucks. Now, vinyl is considered “vintage” and I no longer have a record player. Just my luck…)
So, with 2020 nearing its very welcome demise, Thanksgiving just behind us and Christmas just down the road, this is a good time to thank some of those who gave me my love of music.
Starting with my mother, who introduced me to jazz-influenced crooners like Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, and Tony Bennett, romantic singers like Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck, and of course, Elvis. For her, nothing and no one surpassed Elvis. The day he died, it was like the earth had stopped turning.
Then there’s my junior high band director John Knudson, for the gift of Big Band jazz (Benny Goodman, Woody Herman, Glenn Miller); and my two high school band directors Mike Fiske (funkier, more mature jazz like Spyro Gyra and Maynard Ferguson); and the iconic Ted Lega, who turned me on to classical music (“Carmina Burana”) and taught his students life-long life lessons about perseverance in the face of difficulty.
My high school buddy Anthony “Gook” Gray turned my whole life around when he lent me his cassette tape of this short, skinny African American musician who dressed weird and sang dirty lyrics. His name was Prince, and the album was “Controversy.”
Prince took (and continues to take) me in every possible direction down every musical street there is including funk (James Brown) and soul (Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin) and rock (Jimi Hendrix.)
Another high school buddy, John Quirk and I explored every piece of jazz and blues we could lay our hands on, especially when we worked together at Musicland in the Jefferson Square Mall, neither of which exist now.
John Coltrane, Miles Davis (who singlehandedly changed popular music three distinct times), Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker. Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Buddy Guy, and the late, great, Walkin’, Talkin’ Stevie Ray Vaughn (and Prince too. John was as big a fan as me.) Our “erudite” conversations filled countless high school, college and post-college days and nights.
Early in our marriage, my wife, Kellie started listening to “modern country” – Shania Twain, Sarah Evans, and especially Kenny Chesney. I liked some of it, and soon gravitated more toward the more “traditional” sounding country artists like Alan Jackson, the Dixie Chicks, George Straight and Reba McEntire – you know, anything with a twang.
But of course, if you’re going to listen to country music, you need to listen to COUNTRY music: – Merle, Willie, Kris, Loretta, Dolly, Hank (Senior and Junior), Waylon, and the biggest big dog of them all, the Man in Black, Johnny Cash.
My best college buddy, Chuck Pelkie, opened the universe to me when he introduced me to Dylan and Springsteen. I will always remember the first time I heard “The River” by Bruce. I sobbed – I am not kidding, tears ran down my face — at the story of a young man who got his girlfriend pregnant, was forced into a life-sucking job, “and man that was all she wrote.”
And Dylan? Well, there aren’t words to describe Dylan. He is as significant as the Beatles in terms of his impact on popular music. A case can easily be made that he’s even more significant than the Beatles since they were trying to emulate him when they wrote “Sgt. Peppers.”
Chuck has kind of soured on both Bruce and Bob in recent years, and not without some justification. However, he’s continued to expand my musical horizons, introducing me to John Prine, Jason Isbell, The Avett Brothers.
I could go on and on – John Lennon’s solo work, the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin. Each made a huge impact on me, opening my mind to new thoughts. New ideas. Experiences unique to one person or group, and experiences shared by all people and groups. What separates and unites us.
I turn 55 in January.
Still, whenever I stumble across a new artist – the Mavericks, Lukas Nelson and the Promise of Real, Lake Street Dive – I feel like a kid again. I want to share that joy and energy that comes only with discovery even as I revel in it.
I have shared my musical passions with both my daughters over the years. We may not always like the same things (Exhibit A, Your Honor: Jesse McCartney and The Backstreet Boys) but I am proud to say our girls have very well-rounded musical tastes.
These days, you’ll find me explaining the unique Lennon/McCartney dynamic or dissecting the differences and similarities between the Stones and Beatles or singing an Aretha song or dancing to “September” by Earth, Wind and Fire with my granddaughter.
You may think that’s a lot to lay on a two-year-old. You may be right; I may be crazy (Billy Joel.)
But in a world of talent-less garbage and profit-driven mimicry, I want her to understand the good stuff and where it comes from. I want her to know the magic of music, and to feel and trust in and rely on its essential life-altering, life-giving power, especially in dark times.
Just as I have. Just as I do, even now.