The Songs Begin to Make Sense
My husband is a professional musician. No, he’s not a singer/songwriter (thank God). Yes, music is his only job. No, he is neither irresponsible, nor a jerk. Sometimes, though, when he’s feeling a little self-deprecating, he’ll make comparisons between his chosen career path and mine. He’ll say something like, “You help all kinds of people. I don’t do anything important.” If I’m in a particularly teasing mood, I’ll agree with him. But it’s not the truth.
It’s important to know that I possess absolutely no musical talent. While relatives on my father’s side of the family have singing voices that range from acceptable enough to get the occasional solo in the church choir to lovely enough to earn a spot as a background singer in the Grand Old Opry, I take after my mother’s family. Which is bad, at least where talent is concerned. And it’s not just singing- my own aunt once turned me away from piano lessons. She said my fingers were too short. I think she was just being kind. Anyway, I tell you this to let you know that I have never been particularly “into” music. I have always just listened to whatever was on the radio. I’m not the girl to go to if you want to discuss the relative merits of today’s indie rock scene, or wax poetic about the good ol‘ days when vinyl ruled the world. My musical abilities may be lacking, and my interest may be average, but that doesn’t mean that I underestimate the value of my husband’s work.
Music matters. It takes a feeling and articulates it. It takes a moment and sharpens it. Songs mark the passage of time- they make memorable what might otherwise be forgotten. Just this morning, I grabbed a cd at random from the console of my car and popped it in for my drive. It was the Dixie Chicks, and as soon as I heard the opening notes of Wide Open Spaces, I was taken back to a Sunday over a decade ago....
I was in the driver’s seat of my first car, a beaten up Ford Escort. I was sitting on a towel rather than the cracked red vinyl seat, because it was August, and the Escort lacked air conditioning. I wasn’t alone, my mother and my sister were with me in the car. Somewhere behind me, my stepdad and little brother were in a truck, pulling a small trailer containing everything I was taking with me to start college. I didn’t want to go. I mean, I did...but I didn’t. I had fallen asleep the night before to the movie Emma- my idea of a “comfort movie,” something to keep me from thinking too hard about how my life would never be the same. I had gotten up early that morning to say goodbye to my grandparents, my heart breaking at the realization that it was the beginning of a new time in my life...one that probably didn’t include weeks spent at their house, playing Barbies with my cousins. I was growing up, and I was happy...but also sad.
The mood in the car that day was a little strange. My mom and I were both pretending that we weren’t about to cry. My sister and I were both pretending that we didn’t hate each other, that it wouldn’t be a good ten years before we could really consider ourselves friends. We weren’t really talking as we drove down the interstate, but then something happened. Wide Open Spaces. It started playing, and it was cheesy and cliched, but it just said everything. My mom, my sister and I, we all started singing. Loudly. Badly. We were singing and laughing and maybe even crying. It was silly, and it was perfect, and it has stayed with me.
I don’t really remember much about the rest of that day. I know it was hot, and I know I must have somehow gotten all settled in my dorm. I have a vague memory of my grouchy sister, dressed in her pajamas and a ridiculous pair of fluffy slippers, making my bed just so she could take a nap in it, but all of those moments are fuzzy...kind of gray. Not that moment in the car, though. It’s in technicolor (and, for better or worse, in stereo). It’s there to remind me of who I was and how far I’ve come. It will be with me always. Because of the music.
It’s important to know that I possess absolutely no musical talent. While relatives on my father’s side of the family have singing voices that range from acceptable enough to get the occasional solo in the church choir to lovely enough to earn a spot as a background singer in the Grand Old Opry, I take after my mother’s family. Which is bad, at least where talent is concerned. And it’s not just singing- my own aunt once turned me away from piano lessons. She said my fingers were too short. I think she was just being kind. Anyway, I tell you this to let you know that I have never been particularly “into” music. I have always just listened to whatever was on the radio. I’m not the girl to go to if you want to discuss the relative merits of today’s indie rock scene, or wax poetic about the good ol‘ days when vinyl ruled the world. My musical abilities may be lacking, and my interest may be average, but that doesn’t mean that I underestimate the value of my husband’s work.
Music matters. It takes a feeling and articulates it. It takes a moment and sharpens it. Songs mark the passage of time- they make memorable what might otherwise be forgotten. Just this morning, I grabbed a cd at random from the console of my car and popped it in for my drive. It was the Dixie Chicks, and as soon as I heard the opening notes of Wide Open Spaces, I was taken back to a Sunday over a decade ago....
I was in the driver’s seat of my first car, a beaten up Ford Escort. I was sitting on a towel rather than the cracked red vinyl seat, because it was August, and the Escort lacked air conditioning. I wasn’t alone, my mother and my sister were with me in the car. Somewhere behind me, my stepdad and little brother were in a truck, pulling a small trailer containing everything I was taking with me to start college. I didn’t want to go. I mean, I did...but I didn’t. I had fallen asleep the night before to the movie Emma- my idea of a “comfort movie,” something to keep me from thinking too hard about how my life would never be the same. I had gotten up early that morning to say goodbye to my grandparents, my heart breaking at the realization that it was the beginning of a new time in my life...one that probably didn’t include weeks spent at their house, playing Barbies with my cousins. I was growing up, and I was happy...but also sad.
The mood in the car that day was a little strange. My mom and I were both pretending that we weren’t about to cry. My sister and I were both pretending that we didn’t hate each other, that it wouldn’t be a good ten years before we could really consider ourselves friends. We weren’t really talking as we drove down the interstate, but then something happened. Wide Open Spaces. It started playing, and it was cheesy and cliched, but it just said everything. My mom, my sister and I, we all started singing. Loudly. Badly. We were singing and laughing and maybe even crying. It was silly, and it was perfect, and it has stayed with me.
I don’t really remember much about the rest of that day. I know it was hot, and I know I must have somehow gotten all settled in my dorm. I have a vague memory of my grouchy sister, dressed in her pajamas and a ridiculous pair of fluffy slippers, making my bed just so she could take a nap in it, but all of those moments are fuzzy...kind of gray. Not that moment in the car, though. It’s in technicolor (and, for better or worse, in stereo). It’s there to remind me of who I was and how far I’ve come. It will be with me always. Because of the music.