You often hear it said that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. And I suppose it's hard to argue with the logic of an Old Spice commercial, but nothing brings me back to any given moment of my history quicker or with greater strength than music.
When I was little I would push the living-room furniture against the walls and pretend the bare carpet was a dance studio. I'd dance to Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl" or Bobby Darrin's "Mack the Knife" with as much passion and fervor as any six year old could. I combined fluid body rolls and waving arms with tight neck pops and precise arm movements. I looked ridiculous, and I didn't care. I have always meant to thank my parents for letting me do that without ever making me feel self-conscious or without yelling at me for scuffing up the walls with the coffee table.
My dad told me "Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac has always made him think of my sister because he stumbled upon her dancing in our living room one day, to that song. Now he'll always have a song to bring him back to her.
When my brother was born I used to sing Kenny Loggins' "Pooh Corner" to him. I'm a horrible singer, but I hoped by singing to him, back then, he'd feel how his birth helped me shed all the pain from my parent's divorce. How his mere existence breathed life into me, and all I wanted, from that day on, was for him to be happy. That's all I still want.
In seventh grade, Natalie and I choreographed a dance to Toby Keith's "Shoulda Been a Cowboy" and although it makes me cringe a bit—we chose that song?—anytime I hear "California's full of whiskey, women and gold," I smile. I think of our friendship: how much it's been through, how far it's come, how lost I was when life (and poor choices) took me away from my best friend. Life with Natalie has always made more sense than life without her.
In 1995 I sat in front of my boom box, waiting for our local Top-40 station to play TLC's "Waterfalls" (with the rap!), so I could record it onto my patiently waiting blank tape. There was something incredibly exciting about the build-up and the anticipation and then finally hearing your favorite song of the moment. I don't know what I think about iTunes and MySpace and plain Google stealing that feeling from generations of angsty teens.
During high school, I performed a solo in front of my drillteam as part of a final round of officer tryouts. I choreographed it myself and it was rough and pathetically amateurish, and I cringe thinking about it in comparison to the studio routines of the other officer hopefuls. I danced to "Lucky" by Seven Mary Three. Somehow, I made it.
In high school, I fell in love with someone, and there are so many songs that bring him flooding to the front of my memory, but there is one song I play only in my most nostalgia-soaked moments. "Not Forgotten You" but Kelly Willis. He was a hard one to get over, but once I moved past him, I realized I had learned one of the greatest lessons first love teaches us: given enough time, you can heal from just about anything.
In the winter of 2000, my dad, sister and I all rode together to Seattle from Northern California (to settle my sister into her new home). During the trip we took turns choosing the music. My picks were limited to whatever my college-freshman self kept in her CD book. (Texas country, most likely: Pat Green, Roger Creager, Robert Earl Keen.) Rachel would pick "Best Of" box sets that ran close to three hours and my dad would pick the Gypsy Kings or Sade. We'd all moan our way through the other's selections, but I remember that ride from Petaluma to Seattle as some of the best days the three of us have ever spent together, contradicting music tastes and all. Every now and then when the radio is feeling extra kind or my iTunes sifts through Greenday's entire repertoire to land on Jackson Browne's "Sky Blue & Black," I'm catapulted back to that road trip and I think of all we've been through, my broken well-intentioned family. And I remember all the times words have failed us while music never has. (And the far too simple beauty / of the promises we made.)
The first time I heard "18th Floor Balcony" by Blue October—a little over a year into my relationship with Mike—I imagined us dancing to it on our wedding day. And it was the last song that played at our wedding. We drunkenly danced to it, whispering the words into each other's ears. My husband and I. A dream realized. (We talked about moms and dads, about family pasts / just getting to know where we came from / I can't believe this is happening to me / And I raised my hand as if to show you that I was so yours for the taking / I'm still so yours for the taking.)
I'm making new memories even as I sit here, listening to "The Fear You Won't Fall" by Josh Radin. And how the chords and the slow rise of the chorus put me in the mood to write. It reminds me of what music should always be.
And there are thousands more. From Van Morrison to Jennifer Knapp. From NSync (seriously) to Rascal Flatts. From Starship to Journey to Ben Folds. And every song I've every heard by Matt Nathanson.
Songs that will never be just songs. Songs that make up the soundtrack of my life, setting every moment on fire.
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What are those songs for you?
