Music Lover

I've always been a music lover. My mother likes to tell people the story of me, at age 2+ turning to my then best friend as "Love & Happiness" came on the radio and saying, "ooooh Ley-Ley, that's my AL BREEN!" I like to think of it as proof positive that I not only love music, but have excellent taste.

I definitely inherited my love (and good taste) from my mother, who herself grew up in a familial setting where music played a large role. In my mother's house, I grew up with bebop, reggae, r&b, funk (she used to pick me up from my super-conserative Episcopal Day School in her powder blue Audi Fox with "Knee Deep" on the stereo), and a sense that I could enjoy whatever musical taste I cultivated, without criticism from her.

My grandparents' house was full of music, too . . . with eight children ranging from the first year of the Boom to the first years of Generation X, I'm sure you can imagine the styles that were brought home. But I think we all inherited our love of jazz from them; I enjoyed watching Ken Burns' series with my grandfather because he relived his mania for visiting clubs and hearing great music with me, and I genuinely connected with him, perhaps for the first time, through the excitement that he expressed over chasing the sound he loved so well.

Most recently, watching American Gangster and hearing "Across 110th Street" brought an odd and strangely tangible memory to me-- driving in the car, sitting in the backseat and hearing the song on the radio. I got the kind of rush that old, only slightly realized memories bring: I could smell the car leather, feel the seat, smell my mother, feel her in the front, recall the feeling of being too small to see out the window independently. But it was also weird-- not the main car I remember from my childhood (a 1975 Pinto in which we were actually rear-ended by nuns, in Boston, and miraculously the car did NOT explode), but rather a big, heavy, leathery metal machine. My mother reminded me that we had Lincoln Continental at one point in Chicago, which would fit the bill as huge and leathery. Perhaps that's the memory.


Recently I was also able to right the wrong of many years ago; my friend Craig offered me the extra ticket he had to the Police concert at the Verizon Center. In seventh grade I was the only one of my friends not allowed to see them at the then Capital Centre (soon to be USAir Arena and then to Be No More). I went, and sang all night, thoroughly enjoying each and every song they played, in a tight set of gemlike songs. I have been listening to "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" since its release in 1981, and it still makes me feel exuberant & joyful. I haven't banned it, ever, unlike *ahem* Every Breath You Take, which I actually got through for the concert, but since it's ridiculous run on Friday Night Videos back in 1983-84 it hasn't been a favorite. It was great to make up for missing the Synchronicity farewell; I found myself wondering what's come of Peter Richardson, my fellow "early adapter" to the Police sound. Maybe he had seats down in front?

Anyway . . . Thanksgiving was actually pretty good this year. It was as it was when I was kid, and my family lived overseas. We used to celebrate just my mother and me and my great grandmother. Sometimes family friends would join in, or a French would be in town, but for the most part it was us, and as an only child, that was fine. This year my mother and I made the meal at my house, and she finally got to watch some episodes of a BBC documentary on soul music that I'd been saving for her. So for me-- good food, good family, good music. Good Time.