I'm not a classic rock fan. I don't even know what the term, "classic rock" is supposed to mean. To me, classic rock is not the type of music they play on classic rock stations. Our local classic rock station has a playlist that consists of approximately nine songs. From what I can tell, classic rock consists of Aerosmith, ZZ Topp, The Who, and Tom Petty.
I am, however, a Tom Petty fan.
I honestly missed the Tom Petty era. The seventies were a lost decade of music for me. If it wasn't for my little sister, I wouldn't have any acquaintance with Tom at all. My sister turned me on to the album, "Full Moon Fever" in 1989. So I was only approximately ten years behind the times, in Tom Petty World.
What I knew about Tom Petty I could count on the fingers of one hand: Full Moon Fever, his hat, The Traveling Wilburys.
Lately I've been watching a Netflix documentary about Tom. I like him. He was a likeable guy. I was going along, liking him, and then he talked a bit about his childhood. And then I really liked him. I don't know why, but I'm continually surprised to learn that other people had crappy childhoods. I thought it was just me. I seriously did think that. Everybody I knew growing up seemed to live such serene lives. "Serene" is not a word I've used to describe myself -- ever. It makes me feel better to learn that somebody like Tom, who later touched the sky, started out as a messed-up kid.
Musically, Tom will always be this to me:
Tom said, about this song, that each of the members of the group threw out lines, and they kept the best ones. I can pick out Dylan's words. Dylan's words, in general, are sublime. I would love to know which other words belonged to whom.
George is gone, Roy (my heart) is long gone.
Now Tom is gone. It doesn't seem right somehow. It's too soon. I barely got to know him.
It's counter-intuitive, but if I'm feeling bad and I have Sirius radio playing, I deliberately choose bad music. In my case tonight, it's the seventies channel.
I think perhaps it's because I'm not really listening to music -- I'm too busy wallowing. I don't want to be distracted by something semi-good.
I've chosen music in the past to match my feelings. When my dad died, I played Ray Price's "A Thing Called Sadness" over and over, loud. Dad and I loved that Ray Price album when I was growing up. It was fitting to say goodbye to him with music we had shared.
Sometimes a song says something at just the wrong time. George Strait's "You Can't Make A Heart Love Somebody" forced me to face what I preferred not to admit.
Did you ever have something gnawing on your brain, but you were too busy trying to get through the day to allow yourself to feel? I've been running non-stop for two weeks and I'm only halfway through my marathon. Tonight, it all hit me. I cried -- out of frustration and helplessness. They say everyone has choices in life, but it's not actually true.
So tonight, I'm listening to some of the worst songs ever recorded. Seventies music is great for that.
This post has no point, really. I think I will write another, if for no other reason than to try to make myself feel better.
In the summer of 1993 my mom and dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary was approaching. Clever as us six kids were, we determined we would surprise them with a secret party. I don't remember who first came up with the idea, but those of us who didn't live far away grabbed the reins of mega-party planning. It wasn't to be a big blowout -- just immediate family, which by that time included grandkids as well. Mom and Dad's brothers and sisters were far-flung, and we weren't about to impose upon them to travel (at their advanced age) the six hundred or so miles to the scene of a party they hardly cared about, because they had their own milestones to celebrate. Besides, we much preferred intimate gatherings. My two sisters who lived in Texas readily came on board. They agreed to show up "unexpectedly" for an impromptu visit. We arranged for a limo to pick up Dad and Mom to chauffeur them to the restaurant that we'd booked for their special dinner.
I'm a pretty good organizer, and I'm a girl, which immediately deemed me one of the head planners. In actuality, my sister Rosie did the majority of the legwork. My older brother and my little brother no doubt had responsibilities, but I can't imagine or remember what those might have been.
For no logical reason, I decided I would be in charge of the "background" music for the dinner. This task I took very, very seriously. I apparently imagined that someone would actually care (no one did). I would do it again if the opportunity presented itself. Because that's what I do. I am the "music person" of the family. That's my role.
Compiling fifty years of music of someone else's life is not an easy task. And it's rather presumptuous. I can't imagine that anyone could sum up fifty years of my life -- and I know they couldn't. How would they know which songs meant anything to me? It would be such an eclectic list.
However, I researched and scoured lists of music from all the decades. I went to Musicland (yes, it still existed then) and bought CD's that I needed in order to secure my masterpiece.
I had no idea whether this song meant anything to my parents, but if one thinks "forties", what else would they think but:
The fifties were trickier. The fifties were not a sublime decade for music. I was not about to go with "How Much Is That Doggie In The Window". I settled upon this:
The sixties were relatively easier. After all, I had this to fall back on:
Truly, I have no recollection of what I included for the seventies and the eighties. I'm sure, however, that it was awesome.
This, however, is the one that gets me every time:
This song was the coup de grâce of my two-tape set. It summed up everything -- fifty years of happiness and heartache. I don't think anyone noticed or heard it that night, but I knew it was there. It was a tough one for me, because I'd witnessed it all when none of the other kids in my family had. I remembered everything. It's easy to gloss over the hard times when one doesn't have to live them. But optimist that I am, I still believed in happy endings. My mom and dad had one that night -- August nineteenth, nineteen ninety-three.
When my mom passed away, my brother told all of us to take something that had meaning to us. I claimed that two-set cassette tape. I'd poured my heart into the making of it. Those amber ribbons were the only way I knew how to say, "I love you" to two people who were supremely complicated, but who shaped everything that I am.
I miss them.
George Harrison claims they are still here. I don't know that I know that. I haven't talked to Dad in a long while. I don't think I've ever talked to Mom. Maybe they're still here. Maybe they care about the person I am now. Maybe they are saying, "she turned out okay".
I'm happy I did what I did for them, on their fiftieth year.
Ever since Google stiffed me on my domain name, I lost my blog followers because no one knows how to find me. It seems that no one even finds my blog by accident -- I have received zero comments. To my regular readers it's as if I've simply disappeared. Nevertheless, I keep writing. I've had this blog since 2006 -- eleven years of meanderings; some fun, some sad. I'm a writer; that's what I do.
Introverts, they say, live inside their own heads. I don't think it's as simple as that. It's not as if I'm incapable of interacting with people. I once was -- when I was young. At one time, I was essentially mute. But one learns. I still prefer my own company, given a choice. I have things to think about. Not necessarily profound things -- just things. If I have time alone, it recharges me. Without that opportunity, I begin to flounder. I become clumsy -- running into walls, tipping over cups of coffee. I tipped over my coffee cup just this week -- soaked somebody's computer mouse. It's rather embarrassing, but it happened because my every waking moment has been pre-scheduled. Tonight is the first time I've been alone with my thoughts in a week.
All this is rather stream-of-consciousness. Since no one is reading, I just wanted to remind myself that writing for me is not a bad thing.
1975 was a bridge year for me. I'd gotten married in '74, one month shy of age nineteen. I was a "housewife" who still worked part-time for my parents -- because I was essentially afraid of the world. Plus, despite the courage I'd had to muster by age twelve due to the family dysfunction that had reared its ugly head, I'd lived a sheltered life. If sheltered means cloistered behind a sliding chain-lock in my room. I'd gone from high school to my first real job working for State government, which lasted as long as it took me to realize I was now ensconced in another maladjusted relationship, and I wasn't even related to these people! So I'd scurried back to the devil I knew.
Life was quiet. Sometimes we'd have breakfast at the Country Kitchen, when we could spare four dollars. We fished. Fishing sounds quaint and bucolic. In North Dakota, fishing is finding a path through the overgrowth of weeds snagging the shoreline of a "lake", which is in reality a slough at the end of a cow path smack-dab in the midst of brittle prairie grasses. We'd pack an insulated bag with Cokes and bologna sandwiches and Old Dutch potato chips, grab a ratty blanket, and off we'd go to the middle of nowhere. If I hadn't had my Kool cigarettes, I would have passed out from boredom. I learned how to cast a line, but I hoped to God I wouldn't catch anything, because then what would I do?
My husband's boss had talked him into joining the local Moose Lodge, so sometimes on a Friday night we'd drive over for a steak dinner. I hated steak (I had a beef revulsion at that time), but the price was right; something like $5.99, and it included a salad and a baked potato with those little chive sprinkles; and the lodge had a live band. I was a bad drinker. First of all, I never knew what kind of drink to order, so I'd go with a Tom Collins, which included a skewer with a cherry stuck in it. Two drinks and I would be babbling incoherently. I made many, many best friends at the Moose Lodge that I never again saw in my life after that night.
I'd planned out my first pregnancy. I would be married for two years (two years was the prescribed duration of newlywedness before a baby should appear. That was the lay of the land in the seventies.)
So, as I said, 1975 was my bridge year. In '76 I would become pregnant. Thus, I did those things one does when they have few responsibilities. I worked, I came home, I took a nap on the couch. I watched afternoon TV. I "cooked" dinner. (I was the world's worst cook. I knew how to make Kraft macaroni and cheese, which was fine by me until my other half complained that he wanted meat for supper. I abhorred meat, so that transition was a struggle.) If nothing interesting was on TV, I'd snap on the radio that was a component of my faux-walnut console stereo system.
I was in that uncomfortable place, with one foot in the country world and the other in rock. Honestly, in the seventies it all blended together. Most music fans weren't snarky and judgmental. They accepted a track for what it was. Now, I'll grant you, we were maybe too accepting. We accepted a lot of shit in the seventies. One must understand, though, that we weren't in control of our entertainment -- it came to us. Aside from LP's, radio was king. TV, too. We put up with a lot of sleazy middle of the road trash that showed up on our screens, because what were we to do? Turn off the TV and go to bed?
Looking back at the top hits of 1975, I'm surprised I didn't just die.
Hits like this:
It's weird that I always thought this next song was a hit in 1976. My baby was a bicentennial baby. That was a big deal! And I have the red, white, and blue certificates from the hospital to prove it! Apparently Elton wanted to get out ahead of the curve, so he recorded this song just in time:
If you don't get the Bee Gees, then you weren't alive in the seventies. Barry latched onto a winning formula and wouldn't let go. Barry Gibb's vision took the trio through approximately two years of hits. This is not their most familiar, but the message here is essentially the same:
There was a little basement bar not far from my dad's motel that featured live acts sometimes. It was a tiny spot that couldn't have possibly made up the featured band's expenses in cover charges. I'm thinking Lee Merkel's bar lost money on that venture, but I saw a few acts there, really up-close, and I remember them all. To be frank, I didn't know who the Doobie Brothers were. I didn't know a lot of things. They performed this song:
It's funny how memory deceives us. My husband would tell you that the premier act of 1975 was the Rolling Stones; yet they had no single in the top 100 of the year.
Instead, it was this:
I guess we get to watch still pictures as we listen to the number sixty-one single of the year by Grand Funk Railroad:
Another aspect of 1975 was Barry Manilow. Scoff if you will, but Barry Manilow was huge in the seventies. I saw him in concert. I saw tons of acts. I saw anyone who came to town.
One of my fondest memories is singing this next song with my little sister. We were on a road trip with countless family members -- my dad and my mom, my husband, a nephew or two; and Lissa and I were in the front seat with my dad. Everybody else was asleep in the back. Lissa and I did an awesome version of this song as it played on the car radio:
1975 wouldn't be complete without this song:
There are two songs that for me memorialize 1975. There is no rational reason -- they're not my favorite songs. They're just there -- there in my pea-brained memory.
Here is the first:
And then -- ahhh -- this one:
1975 was a bridge. After that, life would be forever changed.
There's something to be said for weird songs. First of all, if done right, weird songs are memorable. It's a fine line between done right and done wrong. If an artist tries too hard to be strange, they just come across as lame and obvious. For example, Ray Stevens is primarily known for his novelty songs, which I rarely found humor in. It's a shame, because Ray Stevens is a highly underrated artist (when he does serious songs), but I guess he'd found his niche in kitsch.
The majority of weird songs were recorded by one-hit wonders -- because once you've done crazy, it's hard to recreate. Little kids love weird songs. The weirder the better. One has to have the mindset of a kid to understand that. Kids, once they become cognizant of music, either become ingrained in music by listening to the radio or by someone older's influence. In my case, the "someone older" was my big brother. My brother schooled me in music and essentially led me where he wanted me to go. He had superb taste in music. I discovered the Beatles from their radio hits, but it was my brother who bought "Rubber Soul" and "Help!" and showed me that albums could be magical things. He introduced me to Bob Dylan. I knew of the Beach Boys, but not the entirety of the Beach Boys. The first time I heard, "Oh, Pretty Woman" I was Roy Orbison's forever, but my brother had Roy's greatest hits and damn! The first LP I ever owned was a birthday present from my brother -- "If You Can Believe Your Eyes And Ears" by the Mamas and the Papas. So by around age nine, I knew what good music should sound like.
Then I heard a strange song on the radio. I thought it was hilarious -- well, I was eleven. The song was supremely weird -- not the way songs should go. This intrigued me. My best friend Cathy also thought it was awesome. That was an extra-added bonus, because we could sing (or talk) along to it when it came on the radio and giggle about it.
Since it was 1966, apparently we have no YouTube live performance videos of the song (and really, could it be performed live?)
The lines that cracked me up (at age eleven) were:
I cooked your food
I cleaned your house
And this is how
You pay me back
For all my kind
Unselfish loving deeds Huh?
Napoleon XIV:
At my tender, impressionable age of thirteen, this next song became a hit. This one wasn't humorous. I was deeply ensconced in my Catholic religion at that time -- a reawakening of my faith or a love of ritual -- either way, my religious fervor was short-lasting. Nevertheless, I felt this song was how the devil would sound if he was to talk to me (he never actually did, that I know of).
The Crazy World of Arthur Brown:
By the seventies, I was more cynical -- probably too cynical for my age -- but there it was. I'd heard so much music by then, good and bad; sometimes awful, sometimes awesome; but mostly awful. I'd learned that there was nothing left to learn about music. Bear in mind, I'd probably been exposed to roughly 10,000 songs by that time, which was a pretty good record, since I was only in my twenties.
I was minimally aware of Glenn Miller's music; as much as I'd caught on some TV variety show or perhaps as background music -- Muzak -- or perhaps on a commercial. I've since learned a lot about Glenn Miller, but at that time of my life, it was just "old people's music", and I was disinterested.
A song began appearing on the radio. The melody was familiar, but this particular rendition was sung by chickens. Naturally, that caught my attention. It was goofy, sort of like "They're Coming To Take Me Away" was goofy and odd and chin-scratching. One had to ask oneself, "Why would chickens be singing this song?"
The Henhouse Five Plus Two (alias Ray Stevens):
If I travel wa-a-a-y back in time, to my barely conscious musical awakening at age five, I would include this next song in the realm of weirdness. Little did I know that it was an iconic Bill Monroe bluegrass song. But this version is much more fun:
The Fendermen:
After the seventies and Ray Stevens, nobody really released weird records anymore. Everything became super-serious and important. The sixties were the nadir of weirdness. Too bad. We could use much more fun and more idiosyncrasy.
It's almost impossible to find fun anymore. It's like fun is a bad word. "The world is too dangerous to have fun."
No. It's not.
Perhaps what's wrong with the world today is that nobody has any fun. Maybe that's why everyone is so surly. I don't know about you, but my world is surly. Surly at work -- everybody fighting for supremacy. Surly at home. Somebody didn't do something they were expected to do. We can't breathe.
"Fun" is frowned upon. Don't be silly! Damn you! What are you, some kind of moron?
Our muscles are taut. The stress hormones course and skip across our sinews.
God damn, people! Lighten up! The world is shorter than you think. Human existence won't end because you used a semi-colon instead of a comma in a sentence in an email!
I miss fun. I would have more of it if it was permissible.
Music wasn't foremost in my mind in 1977. My son was born in November of 1976, so I was busy. I had known nothing about babies, but the old adage is actually true -- babies are resilient, despite their parents' ignorance. Unless, of course, you can actually kill them with love (you can't).
I had quit working -- which is sort of amusing. As if one can just quit and magically be able to sustain their family. It would be more accurate to say that I took a break. Considering that we were pitiably poor, taking a break was either a selfless act of motherly love or a dimwitted blunder. Honestly, though, how many material goods does one need? Most every newly-married couple I knew lived in a mobile home (it was the seventies -- thanks to Jimmy Carter, nobody could afford anything). It's funny how people love to throw around the term "trailer trash", but much like commenters on news sites who are instant experts on health insurance, people in general are ignorant. My house was nice. It was new, for one thing. I guess people are put off by the "shape" of mobile homes. Inside, however, it's a regular home. Morons. I had actual appliances and everything -- a washer and dryer; not a washboard. I will grant you that heating and air conditioning costs were astronomical. That was thanks to the paper-thin walls. But it was a mobile home. If I'd wanted good insulation, I guess we could have rented an apartment -- if we could find one. Apartments in the seventies in my town were practically unheard of. Some homeowners had little apartments on the upper floors of their houses. There were a couple of squat brick buildings that were "apartment houses". They were generally situated in the less-than-desirable areas of town. And they were meant for singles; not for families. The working girls, the State employees who hadn't yet found a husband.
I bought baby clothes at Woolworth's. I was a big Woolworth's consumer. We had a TV and a stereo and a stroller. The drawback of living in a mobile home park was the habitat -- long, long streets that went on forever. And yea, there were undesirable people I encountered while pushing my baby in his stroller down that interminable street. The park was a conglomeration of regular working people, those on their third divorce and their fourth batch of kids, upwardly mobile couples who held their nose and padded their savings accounts until they could afford to get the hell out, groups of party-bros sharing the rent. Yet, in 1977 there was a pastoral horse pasture across the street from my home. A white picket fence and lazy mares sidling up for a snack. That didn't last long -- progress and more lots to develop -- but it was there for a while -- and my baby boy and I saw it.
Music hovered between background minutiae and rare gems. Country music was in flux in 1977 -- the Outlaws and the In-Laws. Sixties holdovers, urban cowboys, and new jewels. I was nearing the end of the line with country music, yet I wouldn't give up on it completely until 1984. I hated most of it, but I kept holding out hope that something magical would happen.
This is what I remember:
Apparently Waylon and Willie saw no need to do a live version of this song. This was the best video I could find, and all in all, it's not bad:
After a time, I grew tired of Crystal Gayle and her hair. I mean, how many times can one watch a girl flipping her four-foot-long tresses? It was odd and led to many questions, such as, how much did she pay for plumber visits? And how much must the plumbers hate getting that call? "Oh, it's Long Hair again. You wanna take this one, Bob?" Nevertheless, this was a nice song the first fifty times I heard it.
George and Tammy got back together briefly in 1977, because they knew a good thing when they heard it. And when we heard it. It's so nice to hear Tammy again. There are two female singers who knew, really knew, how to sing country -- Patsy Cline and Tammy Wynette. It's that indefinable, know-it-when-you-hear-it quality. Tammy had it:
Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, many of the hits I remember from 1977 are unavailable on YouTube, so I will forego "The Wurlitzer Prize" Instead, let's take a look at a track that was truly country, and sustained my puny faith in country music. Unfortunately, no performance from 1977 can be found (and Emmylou had long black hair then -- not as long as Crystal Gayle's -- just sayin').
If one was to tick off the top singles from 1977, there would be these two. One is catchy -- really really catchy. The other is stuck in time. I'll let you be the judge:
But you know me. I'm a sucker for real country. This song, to me, will always represent 1977. My baby boy won't remember it, but I do:
If one is to remember the good times, music provides that nudge. When I hear these songs, I'm back in my mobile home kitchen with its frilly curtains, the FM radio blaring out of my faux-walnut console stereo, my baby nodding off in his play swing in the living room as I watch him from my perch in front of the avocado GE range. I was but a child then, playing at being a grownup.
