a long ramble on music and nostalgia

When I was little, the great majority of the music at my house consisted of my parents' (mostly my dad's) record collection: one whole shelf, probably six or seven feet long, packed solid with 33 rpm records that covered a rather astounding variety of music from the 60s, 70s, and early 80s, with a few things older and newer sprinkled in here and there for good measure. It was great for at home, but the options were rather limited when it came to portable music. We didn't have CDs; the first CD player in the house was the clunky Discman I got for my eleventh birthday, and even for a long time after that, I only had three CDs for it. My mother had a modest stash of 8-tracks, but sadly, our family's use of automotive technology did not lag nearly as far behind the times as our home entertainment appliances, so they too were rendered stationary. No, when we traveled, we had cassettes. Not very many, mind you; there were perhaps fifty or so between the three of us, of which maybe a dozen consistently traveled with us and ever got much play-time. Most of these were my mother's; she's nine years younger than my dad, and while he was still hanging on to the end of the vinyl age, she was right there for the advent of cassettes.

I remember the tapes clearly, because on every family vacation, we'd end up discussing at great length whose turn it was to pick the music, and exactly why we didn't need to listen to my Dr. Seuss books on tape again. My mother was a big fan of Dire Straits, a totally kickass band from the 80s, and four of the cassettes were their albums. Two more were from an easy-listening series to which she'd taken a shine, entitled "Nature Quest." There was one that my dad never wanted to listen to: it had an rather hideous 80s seafoam-green cover with pastel polka dots, and was entitled Experience the Divine Bette Midler. There was a copy of Queen's Night at the Opera, which I always vehemently opposed because I thought it was actual opera music, never associating "Queen" with my dad's record that had "that cool stomp-stomp-clap song" on it.

My father's contribution to the stash consisted of The Everly Brothers' Greatest Hits and Simon and Garfunkel's Concert in Central Park, both of which were fairly catchy and made for excellent singing along. For awhile (long enough that I actually thought it was ours), he also had a friend's copy of an Arlo Guthrie hits compilation. This was one of my particular favorites, mostly because of the 18-minute-long "Alice's Restaurant," a song whose references I mostly didn't understand (I'm pretty sure I didn't even know what the draft was at that point) but loved nonetheless. It rarely got played though, because my mother quickly tired of that particular song.

When I was nine or so, I got four cassettes of my own. They were greatest hits collections from the Monkees and the Beach Boys, the Backstreet Boys' first album, and Hanson's single flash of mid-90s fame, Middle of Nowhere. My parents would occasionally consent to play these for me in the car, but they weren't their particular favorites (especially the last two), so it was rare. Given that and the fact that they came into my realm of consciousness significantly later than the other tapes, none of these albums really features prominently in my childhood travel memories.

I mention all this because I'm listening to Simon and Garfunkel right now. It's The Concert in Central Park, one of the albums we'd listen to in the car all those years ago, and I can still feel the sunshine hot on my face, smell the backseat of our old Ford Taurus, and see the scenery sliding past in my memory: the Great Smoky Mountains, the Mackinac Bridge, Brown County State Park. We went places when I was little.

And we'd sing. At least, Dad and I would. I don't remember Mom ever really joining in much, except once in awhile at our friendly cajoling, but I remember Dad and me singing. He'd be in the driver's seat, stretching his deep baritone voice up to match Paul Simon, adding his own characteristic country twang to whatever was being sung. I'd warble along from the back seat with whatever the melody happened to be, or as I got a little older, I'd start purposefully picking out Art Garfunkel's harmonies and singing along with those. My earliest experiences with part-singing were in the "family Ford" with my dad.

As I got older, the family trips lessened, then stopped altogether. Mom's work got more demanding, money got tighter, and life moved on. We sold the Ford. My parents divorced when I was twelve, and I feel kind of sad that my brother, who was two at the time, won't have those same family vacation experiences to remember. He'll have his own memories, I suppose, and won't particularly understand my attachment to thrice-patched cassette tapes and 1986 Ford Tauruses, and that is, I realize, how it should be.

***

And now it's getting on past 5 a.m. and here I sit on my computer. Again. You'd think I'd have more sense. But I've got my headphones on and the lights down low and sitting here in my bed, I must say, it's not a particularly unpleasant state of being. My homework, or at least the portion I planned on finishing tonight, is finished, and while I have to be up at nine for work tomorrow, I don't actually have class (read: the need to be fully coherent) until 1:20 p.m., so I'm not too worried.

Still, tomorrow's gonna be another working day, and I'm trying to get some rest./That's all I'm trying, to get some rest.

So said my pals S&G just now, and I think they're trying to tell me something here. So I think I'll go to bed now, and dream of my childhood.