There wasn’t much music in our house when I was growing up. We had a mid-century style stereo record player but we only had a few records from the 40s and 50s, big band stuff mostly, and Christmas albums, which we’d play sometimes in December. I can remember getting a Jackson 5 album (I think it was GIT but I’d have to get it out of storage to confirm!) and a Carpenters album for my 7th birthday but I didn’t play them much.
My dad, who could not have been called an early adopter of technology, bought a stereo with an 8-track player sometime in the mid to late 1970s. The details are a little cloudy to me — I think he unveiled it at Christmas — I can remember sitting in our very uncomfortable living room listening to 8-track tapes of Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings but Dad’s favorite song was “Take This Job And Shove It.” And that’s really all I have to say about Johnny Paycheck.
After we got the stereo, I would sometimes sit in the living room on a Saturday and listen to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 broadcast. When I got a radio for my birthday, it was a REVELATION. I could sit in my bedroom and listen to whatever music I wanted … sort of, as long as it was on a radio station that I could get and IF they played that song … but, of course, that was the world we lived in.
I didn’t have a tape player for a long time but as soon as I did, I, like everyone from that era probably remembers doing, breathlessly waited for the DJ to play my favorite songs and hurriedly pressed “record” to tape the song so that I could replay it over and over. Nothing was worse … nothing … than having your tape player jam and damage your precious cassette of music recorded from the radio, often with the DJ talking over the beginning and ending of your songs.
Mostly, though, when I was growing up, I can remember my mom turning off the “noise” and sighing. “Silence,” she’d say. “I just want silence.” I don’t have any memories of her listening to music or singing along to a song on the radio. None. That can’t be right. I know she must have liked some music but I have no recollection of it. On the other hand, my dad’s mom, nicknamed Grandma Myrtle the Turtle Traffic Light (MtTTL) by her two adoring granddaughters, loved music. She would sing along to the radio in her car. She’d sing while she was cooking. She’d sing with us while we were taking walks around the neighborhood. I don’t recall her having a good voice but, honestly, in my memory, her gravely singing just makes everything better.
Her favorite television show was Lawrence Welk. Whenever she was with us on a Saturday, we’d watch him conduct and my sister and I would dance around the room like goofs. Now that I’m going through Grandma MtTTL’s old correspondence, I have been reading about all sorts of dances and parties she went to in her teens and early twenties. No wonder she loved all that big band music. That woman was a PLAYER. It wouldn’t surprise me AT ALL to find out that she made bathtub gin.
Ken loved music too, as I’ve mentioned before, and gin, actually. I think he and Grandma MtTTL probably had a lot in common. He was a huge classical music lover and spent nearly 20 years compiling a digital compendium based on a pamphlet someone had written about the 100 best classical performances that every music lover should hear. One time, he and I had great seats at a PSO performance. We were sitting in a nearly empty row by an elderly man who was discreetly conducting the concert from his seat. The man even had a binder with the sheet music. We never found out who he was — music critic, PSO staffer, fan? It was delightful. That man was enthralled and his joy became our joy.
What are you listening to during your quarantine? Music, birdsong, the TV, your own internal monologue (stop that!), your neighbors yelling? In addition to my Spotify playlists, I’ve been “watching” (really just listening as I work) NPR Tiny Desk (Home) Concerts: Lang Lang, Kevin Morby & Waxahatchee, Black Thought (he’s an actual example of that overused word, genius), Michael McDonald, Tarriona Ball (Tank from Tank and the Bangas). I’ve really enjoyed them all.
Speaking of listening and noisy neighbors … I had a huge fight with mine — not the 90 year olds (!), the other one — on Sunday because she installed security lights, with the wattage of the noon sun, facing into my backyard. They’re motion-activated so, of course, they came on at 10:30 Saturday night when I went outside with my dogs. I turned when the light came on and stared into the eclipse sun. And then blink, blink, blink. My eyes!
Sunday, when I asked her to turn her lights into her own yard, she said, “I’ll try to accommodate you if you keep your dogs away from the fence.” Guys, she was referring to MY fence. She wanted me to keep my dogs on the other side of my postage stamp lawn because my dogs’ presence made her dogs bark. Oh, lordy, it got super real. Later that afternoon, she came outside, apologized, asked if we could start over, and moved the light. Yay and all that; but imagine how much better that entire situation would have been if she’d just listened to my objection and responded with kindness. Sigh. Neighbors, amirite?
Anyway, that night, late, I was working on a puzzle in my room, windows open to let in the warm breeze. It was quiet, no car sounds, no one walking around outside. Suddenly, there was the most god-awful noise, a shriek to make your heart stop, to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck.
I looked out the window and saw a huge cat (it might have been just all puffy fur, honestly) chasing my neighbor’s black and white prowler down the street toward my house. The shrieking continued as they fought. I’m leaning, arms on the window sill, kind of laughing as I watch the cat drama play out and I hear a man say, really loudly, “What the f**k is that sound?”
Immediately, a woman answers, “Yes, what IS that?” (Apparently other people have their windows open.) I’m laughing out loud now. I say, “It’s a cat,” as I look down at the two critters now fighting on my sidewalk. “No s**t! That’s a cat?” responds the man. “Yep,” I say. And then he adds, “Thanks, and uh, sorry for my language.”
That’s city living for you.
Stay safe, be well.
