Music of Memory

They say scent is the most evocative sense, bringing back emotions and memories more strongly and more immediately than any other. I don't dispute that (there's a whole "autumn smells" post on the back burner), but I think music can give smell a run for its money.

There are certain songs that, without fail, immediately drag me back into proximity of certain people. They could be -- and often are -- decades removed, but one bar of the song and I'm right back at that age. It's almost always a positive thing, though falling back into high school can be...complicated.

The most expansive example of this effect happens with any song on the entire Slippery When Wet album. A few years after it came out, I'd moved to Oshkosh and Mike Moxon drove me to school and around town a lot. He KNEW I hated that album (and I really, really did). But he also discovered, much to his amusement, that once I know a song, I can't NOT sing along. I mean, I may not even realize I'm singing. So he started playing it every time I got in his big orange-and-white Ford pickup...which was a lot. It's thanks to him I still remember the lyrics and he's the only reason I can think of Bon Jovi with any fondness.

Oshkosh is also the reason anything by George Michael reminds me of Chris Mueller. He and I had been to some random event at a Lutheran church and he was driving me home. This ride home was some kind of set up by our mothers, who (as far as I can figure out), both apparently thought it would be cute if we dated. He and I were under no such illusions...but neither of us was sure the other knew that. It was a very tense, very quiet ride home, with no sound but the radio. And then one song ended and the DJ said, "Next up, George Michael with 'I Want Your Sex.'" There was a moment of frozen panic during which time seemed to stop and my cheeks felt like they were reaching bonfire levels of blushing --and then Chris lunged for the radio to shut it off. He looked sideways at me, I looked at him...and we both burst out laughing. Tenseness over, friendship restored, and I got out of his car at my house without any awkwardness. We never did try dating, though.

Once upon a time, a boy made me two mix tapes, one of which had nothing but love songs on it. He claimed he chose them because he "thought they were songs you might like." One of the featured songs was Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You." When that song comes on (and I know it by heart, every lyric, every note, every pause), I don't think of Kevin Costner; I think of Jason. There are songs on there that I forget existed until they come over random store speakers or on the radio as I drive cross country and BAM! There I am, 15 and wistful and touched and deeply annoyed, all at the same time.

Collective Soul's "Hints, Allegations, and Things Left Unsaid" is freshman year of college in an album to me. I'd never heard of them, but Carl loaned me his copy, telling me I had to hear it. I didn't give it back for months.

Sophomore year was the year of Swedish electropop. Anything from Ace of Base takes me back to my dorm room, singing into hairbrushes with Janet and Jen. "I'm a turtle lying in a coffin, waiting for you!" and other classics of misheard lyrics that were way better than the original version, while we jumped around on the beds, dancing and laughing--this pastime was one of the best things about rooming together.

It's not limited to popular music, either. You pop in the Chess soundtrack, and I can HEAR Shonda singing it. She was obsessed and it didn't take her long to drag me into it. 

College is meant to expand your horizons--some of which you might have preferred to avoid. Example: Jen and country music. I hate it. She loved it. She was the only one with a car. So we all listened to it. Which is why, last year, driving into New Orleans after a long sleepless night, when Tim McGraw's "I Like It, I Love It" came on the radio, I surprised everyone in the car, including myself, by suddenly, rousingly, singing along. (See "Bon Jovi," "earworm," example above). 

Songs that make me smile by association still happen today. When "Bulletproof" by La Roux comes on, I automatically grin because BabyJosh's face pops up. But somehow, the links don't happen as often, or perhaps as deeply.

Maybe music connects most strongly when you're still trying to define the world as you fit into it, and that happens most as an adolescent or young adult? I don't know. Maybe I just did more stuff back then!

I wonder if there are songs that remind people of me?