I don’t think I’ll ever understand people who say that music isn’t important in their lives. How is this possible? Music has played such an integral part in the formation of my character that it is unfathomable that music wouldn’t have affected everyone, to some degree or another. There are so many aspects, so many genres to enjoy, that to be unable to find something that moves you, either physically or spiritually, saddens me. Music is often associated with the soul, and because of this, I feel it is part of the soul. Identity is wrapped up in the music of our lives, whether it be a favorite song or just the rhythm of your work. But to have no music in your life, to be unmoved or unmotivated by a song, would seem to mean you have no soul. I’m one of those people who wakes up with a song stuck in his head, and instead of going crazy trying to get it out, I find myself seeking that song out, needing to hear it’s true form so that I can enjoy it completely. I’m sure there’s a madness with a name that describes this, something like “sonomania” or other combinations (or lack thereof) of Latin. This is not a malady, however, and it’s nothing I would ever want cured. Just as many with obsessive-compulsive disorders feel naked without their “tasks,” so would I feel hungry without my songs (and yes, the thought that perhaps my need for music borders on the obsessive has occurred to me – as has my desire to create as many mixed-metaphors as possible). I do not say everyone needs such desire as I have, but I do say everyone needs (and deserves) a soul.
Music has always been important to me, because it was important to my family. A more tonally deaf group of people you probably have never met, but to not be able to sing is not the same thing to not have song. And my family has a song, or that very least, a song list. Amazingly, despite our lack of vocal talent (a lack that, alas, hit me in conjunction with puberty: here’s six years of torment, and we’ll be taking back one of the things that gives you joy), we still managed to sing a great deal. Sing, hum, dance – music was everywhere.
I grew up in the last days of vinyl, and my Fisher-Price record player did it’s job about as well as anything could that found itself in the hands of three boys (there’s a reason they make all their products out of indestructible plastic). Our choices were not limited, but favorites definitely found their way more often than others, including Carol King’s Really Rosie, Alvin and the Chipmunks, a Care-bears record that I can not remember any of the songs, those McDonald’s records that came in the newspaper (if it played the whole song, you won . . . anyone?) and of course John Williams’ score to the Star Wars movies. When we finally moved from vinyl, we kind of by-passed cassettes (which is not to say we didn’t have any, but rather they were tapes of records my parents owned. My parents loved music, but the idea of buying pre-made cassettes seemed ridiculous. Considering that my parents still listen to cassettes makes me wonder if I have dementia to look forward to when I grow older). So we became one of the first families I knew of that owned a CD player. Which meant that I now had to own CDs.
I remember my first CD like it was yesterday. Instead, it was more like 1988. I had received Huey Lewis and the News’ Sports as a present (great album -- pretend you haven't heard any of the songs on it, I dare you), but seeing how my parents already had that, I figured I’d exchange it for something different. Going to a record store in those days (in other words, days when they were still called “record stores” without any hint of irony) was a little weird, because although they sold CDs, they weren’t necessarily prepared to sell them. And so all their racks and bins were still the ones designed to sell records. So, if you’re ever wondering why CDs used to come in the “long boxes” – those foot long cardboard sleeves that seemed to do nothing but please waste management companies – it’s because record stores needed to be able to use the bins they had, and CDs wouldn’t have been seen.
So there I am, store-credit in hand (well, not really in hand, but . . .), browsing through the bins, and BOOM! it hits me.
D.J. Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince. He’s the DJ, I’m the Rapper.
And a CD collection was born.
And now I’ve added a new one (and that’s how you write an introduction!).
Granted, this “new” one is actually 13 years old (If Johnny-Come-Lately was a corporation – and not simply one that had a bad pun as a name for an impotence drug company – I could definitely be CEO), but it’s fantastic.
In 1994, Jeff Buckley released the album Grace to critical acclaim, and he was on his way. An artist with an amazing voice but no clear genre, he wrote and sang songs that seemed like a mix of folk, rock, jazz, and whatever it is Michael Bublé sings. What’s great about the album is that although it’s eclectic, it’s also clearly Buckley’s, and his voice creates an indelible stamp on each song. “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” and his cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” (quite possibly one of the weirdest pop songs ever written, but beautiful. Fall Out Boy co-wrote their song “Hum Hallelujah” with Cohen for their album Infinity on High, and it’s one of the better songs on that album) are excellent, but the coup de grace is clearly “Last Goodbye.”
For those of you who have no idea who Buckley is, this is probably the song you might recognize without ever knowing who sang it. As far as break-up songs go, it captures all the sweetness of a love that clearly can’t work but wishes it could. It’s haunting, and yet has a great hook, a strong guitar-line, and the strings capture the heartbreak perfectly.
As far as personal lists go, it’s currently in my top ten, in no particular order (which seems to change once a week):
Last Goodbye; Jeff Buckley
“A Change is Going to Come”; Sam Cooke
“Takeover, the Breaks Over” ; Fall Out Boy
“Dance Inside” ; The All-American Rejects
Hangman; Motion City Soundtrack
"September"; Earth, Wind and Fire
“Show Me What You Got (Remix)”; Li’l Wayne
“Try a Little Tenderness”; Otis Redding
“Breathe”; Michelle Branch
“In the Air”; Phil Collins
The best part of the album is the price: I got it for 8 bucks at Virgin. If that’s not a bargain for one of the better albums of the 1990s (I’m saying, throw this in with Life After Death, Nevermind, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill – it’s that good), then hey, you can’t get that Super-Sized Extra Value meal you had your eyes on. So I’m still doing you a favor.
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