Family, Friends, and Rock & Roll

I’m a music obsessive. I cannot play an instrument or sing. I shudder at the idea of seeing myself dance. Listening to music, however, is one of my great and lasting pleasures. Music is mostly a personal pleasure. Sure, I’ve gone to shows with friends, and Sarah and I go to see a few of our favorite performers live each year, but usually I listen on my own and revel in what I hear. Yet, certain songs, or albums, are forever associated with a person, and sometimes a story.

When Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize, I had a few calls from friends. Most of them went something like, “Since I know you grew up in the church of Dylan, I felt like I should call to congratulate you.” The pastor of our church was my father, a Dylan devotee. The first time I heard every song from Bob Dylan through Blonde on Blonde was by his side. I lost count of how many times we watched The Last Waltz together (he was also a serious Scorsese fan). The first concert I attended was Dylan, at Madison Square Garden, with my father.

If one song reminds me most of him, it is The Times They Are A-Changin’. As an adolescent psychiatrist, he kind of relished rebellion. To his credit, the stanza I most remember him singing was:

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin'
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your handFor the times they are a-changin'

My father doesn’t fully own Bob Dylan. I associate Blowin’ in the Wind with my cousin PD. When she babysat, she sang it to me as a lullaby. Her repertoire also included Where Have All the Flowers Gone and I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die-Rag. It’s shocking that I ever fell asleep and that I didn’t get a job as George McGovern’s youngest campaign staffer.

My mother dictated less of the music in the house, but she did enjoy music. Paul Simon was her go-to background music when my father was not around. Pretty much any of his songs make me think of and miss her. Janis Joplin’s Me and Bobby McGee and Mercedes-Benz also remind me of her. I remember singing those with her, from memory -- there was only an AM radio -- in our light blue ’71 Beetle.

Gimme Some Neck was released by Ron Wood in 1979. It is not a well-known record, but I adore it and associate it with my cousin MD. My memory is that, when I was 12 and just getting into music, I asked for AC/DC’s Back in Black for Christmas. MD was appalled by the gift and stepped in to reorient my taste. She packed up half a dozen albums to give to me for my birthday (which I share with Janis, have I mentioned that?). It totally worked, and Gimme Some Neck is the album from that collection that remains in the heaviest rotation.

As I tumbled deeper down the music hole, my cousin CI took me on a tour of the record stores in Greenwich Village one Saturday. Without siblings, I was fortunate to have cousins who gladly mentored me. I have no idea what I bought, but CI bought The Velvet Underground’s first record. He explained that it was one of the inspirations for Punk – we were both big Sex Pistols fans at the time. I remember marveling at the iconic Warhol cover on the subway home.

When we got back to my room and dropped the needle, we were treated to John Cale’s childlike celesta and Nico’s voice—which has been described as a damp cello—at the beginning of Sunday Morning. We looked at each other, thinking, "This does not sound like Punk." It took me a few years to rediscover that album and realize that each song birthed a different genre of music that I love.

By high school, I’d moved from family guidance to mutual discovery with friends. JW was my listening brother. We whiled away countless hours in Vinyl Mania, Discomat, and later Tower Records. We didn’t spend much time listening to music together; instead, we listened on our own and then discussed the music. Sixteen years before Napster, we even started our own pirating endeavor. (I am pretty sure the statute of limitations has expired.)

Although we were Stones, Clash, and Bowie devotees, it was the genre that was played on WLIR -- New Wave and early ‘80s alternative -- that I associate with him to this day. I can’t hear New Order, the Smiths, or early Psychedelic Furs without texting him.

By 1981, I owned every Stones album through Tattoo You -- except Exile on Main Street. I knew it was supposed to be their masterpiece, but there were limits to what I could spend on records. It was a double album that cost $10.99 rather than the $5.99 or $6.49 I was used to spending. The only songs I knew off it were Happy and Tumbling Dice and had my fill of those on FM AOR stations.

Then an occasion presented itself. I decided it was time to repaint my room, changing the red, white, and blue of my childhood to white. My friend CS agreed to help me paint, and I figured, with a whole day of painting ahead, why not have a new double album to spin? (I might have skimmed some of the funds provided by my parents for paints and brushes for the album.)

Exile is now the Stones' album I listen to most. We have a Dominique Tarlé photograph of Mick and Keith at Villa Nellcôte hanging in our house. The smell of paint reminds me of Exile, and Exile reminds me of CS.

Like many, I went from being obsessed with cars to being obsessed with music to being obsessed with girls. I left the car obsession behind, but the girls and music overlapped. There are girls (women now certainly) I only think about now because of the music I associate with them.

The beginning of my relationship with LB, sophomore year of high school, coincided with the introduction of MTV to our cable plan. Because many nights were spent watching music videos, a strange selection of songs is linked to her: Rock the Casbah, Black Coffee in Bed, Hungry Like the Wolf.

I briefly had a crush on SR. When she told me I had to buy My Aim in True and Special Beat Service, I obeyed. I don’t listen to them much these days, but when I do, I think of her.

As adolescence waned, so did music’s ability to imprint on synapses. That said, some records do remind me of college friends. In My Tribe reminds me of WL and Sarah because I tried convincing them that it wasn’t that good. I later realized they were right. I can’t hear Life’s Rich Pageant without remembering RW and I playing the record out of our 4^th-floor Barclay dorm window -- on R’s homemade speakers -- thus treating the whole quad to that stunningly good record. Van Morrison’s Moondance reminds me of my college buddies. They ganged up on me, arguing that Moondance was a better make-out album than Dire Straits’ Making Movies. They were wrong.

I still listen to a ton of music. Most of it travels to my ears from an iPhone to earbuds, and some travels from a real record player to a Bluetooth speaker. I put together a new mix every year to keep me exploring. I love the music itself, but it is extra special when the music brings with it a parent, a relative, or a friend.

OK, I totally nerded out here and made a playlist to go with the post. You can think about whoever you want as you listen.

Photo Credit: Dominique Tarlé