Wednesday 19 November 2014

The Music We Choose

"Why on earth do you have that song in your playlist?"

Do you get asked that question, too?  

When iPods first came out, my husband, an original skeptic of the device, but later a rabid enthusiast, uploaded every song on every CD we had on it, without editing. I protested this promiscuity of music.

If anything ever happened to you, I asked, how would I know what songs really meant something to you?  He pondered this and edited his playlist down to 800-1000. He called it his "funeral mix." 

The girls and I understood the inclusions of Dion and the Belmonts (he loved them as a teenager), Bob Dylan, Rod Stewart, Rolling Thunder, the Beatles (he brought them to the attention of his West Point classmates, most of whom were still listening to the Lettermen), Barry White ("take off your brassiere my dear," from Love Serenade is hard to top for lyrics), and Van Morrison, just to name a few. We weren't prepared for Cher's "Dark Lady," though. He endured merciless teasing while claiming not to know it was on the mix. Maybe not, but that song will forever be associated with him. 

A slight digression:  Several years ago we were playing charades with the girls. He protested that it was unfair to use Prince's "When Doves Cry," in the song category  because he didn't know it. We attacked him for being a poor sport and not keeping up with current music. Whenever he hears it now, he lets us know that he recognizes the song. It's in his "funeral mix."

Back to playlist choices. How do we make them?  We know that music, like a scent, has the ability to transport us to another time or place. My own playlist, which has often been ridiculed by my daughters, husband, and son-in-law (and maybe you, after reading them) includes:

"Night Moves," Bob Seger (reminds me of certain high school nights).
"Gostosa," Jorge Ben Jor  (Brazil memories)
"An Evening in Roma" and "I Love You for Sentimental Reasons" Dean Martin (remind my of my late Aunt Doris and Uncle Ralph).
"Serenata Rap,"  Jovanotti (my daughter Nina and I set up her dorm room while listening to it).
"Sinnerman," Nina Simone (a rainy night in Cairns, Australia).
"Runaway,"  Jefferson  Starship (old boyfriend).
"Let's Be Friends," Bruce Springsteen (I like to swim to it in Italy).
"And I Love Her So," Perry Como (reminds me of my late Aunt Marian, who loved him).
"Bend Down Low," Bob Marley (my daughter Alyssa likes it).
"Beach House," Motherfeather  (Alyssa's friends recorded it).
"You Dropped a Bomb on Me,"  The Gap Band (weddings in Pittsburgh and dancing with my cousins)
"Pink Houses," John Mellencamp (inaugural concert on the Mall for Obama, when people were still excited about the election).
"Arrivederci a Questa Sera," Lucio Battisti (first discovered him with this song).
"Samba Pa Ti," Santana (thrilling guitar).

You get the idea.  It is eclectic for sure, ranging from old crooners to New York popcock rock (Motherfeather, and that's their description of what they do), but every song has a meaning for me. Perhaps it is limiting to do it this way because there are no new song discoveries. On the other hand, we have Pandora radio for that. So when one of my family members asks how on earth I could have such a song on my playlist, I usually have an answer. Except for the inclusion of "Why Not Me?" by the Judds.  I haven't come up with a good reason for that one. 







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