what some people remember, others don't

(The following is a transcription of a phone conversation I had in early 2002 with my dad.)

“Hey Lyse, did you hear there was another Amtrak crash? That’s twice in two weeks.”
[sidenote: strangely enough, there was just an Amtrak crash right outside of Chicago yesterday.]
“That’s terrific Dad,” I say this sarcastically as I’m supposed to be taking a 20-hour train ride from Penn Station to Union Station—school to home—next week.
It’s Thursday night and I’m completing the role of a good daughter making my weekly call to Hoffman Estates, Illinois to inform my parents and younger sister of what’s been going on in my second semester at New York University.
“Well, Lyse, you know I wouldn’t be worried about it if I were you. This was just a fluke. Trains only crash every twenty years or so.”
“Yeah except we almost got killed by one last year.”
He sounds astonished—“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember after the Elton John and Billy Joel concert when we came within inches of being smashed by an oncoming train?” I ask in disbelief that he could possibly have forgotten this near-death experience.
“Oh no that never really happened—I imagined the train.”
“Um…what? No you didn’t”
“Yeah I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yeah I did.”
“Are you kidding me with this? Dad, how could I have just made that up?”
“Well what do you remember happening?”
I relayed my memory to him, careful to include as many details that I could see vividly as I watched the event replay in my head. It was a school night a few days before my senior prom. The concert was great, but I was exhausted, so when we got to the van afterwards I immediately laid across the back row of seats. My last conscious thought was that Mom always told me not to lay like that in case we got in an accident because “it’s a dangerous position to be in” and “the seat belt is working improperly.” But at the time I also made a conscious decision for the first time to ignore her warnings since sleeping was my ultimate priority. The next things I remember are really bright lights and a loud horn-like noise. I’m always disoriented when I first arrive back at an awake state of mind. Maybe it was the bright lights or what I thought was possibly a siren, but when my eyelashes first opened I thought an ambulance was driving perpendicular to the road. But then the train plowed past us, just as the van had crossed the tracks--tracks that we didn’t even know were there.
"It was like a scene out of Ghost, Dad! I swear it looked like that train literally passed through the back end of the van!"
I wanted to scream but I felt paralyzed and, not to sound dramatic, prepared to die. But there was no impact—no compressed vehicle, no flying body parts, nothing.
"You pulled over to the side of the road for a few minutes because you had a temporary emotional breakdown, choking on your words, saying 'I ALMOST JUST KILLED MY WHOLE FAMILY OH MY GOD!' And I think you kept saying how sorry you were, sorry that you almost killed us (even though it wasn’t your fault) because there were no barricades and no railroad crossing signs."
And then we all rode in silence the rest of the way home.
“Hmm.” He tries to take it all in. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Well I remember seeing the train after we crossed in front of it but I felt ok once I looked in the rearview mirror and realized that train was stopped there.”
“It was not stopped! If it was stopped, why’d they have the light on and why would someone lay on the horn? And most of all—why would you have freaked out about ‘almost killing your whole family?’”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Well you did. Why don’t you ask the other two because at least one of us is wrong.”
“As a matter of fact the little one just walked in the door.”
“Where was she?”
“Ballet! Where else would she be on a Thursday night from 8:30-9:30?”

For a few minutes I listen to the conversation between my dad and sister. I picture her in her dance attire, her hair messily rubber-banded to the top of her head, gracing my dad with the look of utter bewilderment and defensiveness she always uses whenever he greets her with a question before she even gets a chance to kick off her shoes, before she can even drop her armload onto the foyer doormat, before she’s instructed, ‘Hey! Shut the door! What’d you grow up in a barn?’ My dad stands shirtless with thirty-year-old gym shorts on, sweating, drinking a tall glass of previously refrigerated water. He has just finished his bi-weekly, twenty-four minute hardcore Lifecycle exercise. He holds the kitchen phone between his left ear and his shoulder so he has one hand free to gesture with. The phone cord is almost pulled straight, stretched to its maximum distance. The plastic coating silently rips somewhere and a few wires show their colors.

“Oh Sher,..” He draws out the “er” (pronounced “air”) so it almost sounds like two syllables.
“Oh Da-ad…” Sheri mimics him, a habit she adopted from watching her older sister all those years she lived at home.
In the most casual voice he asks her, “I was wondering…Do you happen to remember anything out of the ordinary that occurred that night of the John/Joel concert last year?”
“You mean when we like almost got hit by a train?”
“See?” I say into the mouthpiece.
“So you remember that too, huh?” he asks her.
“How could I forget that?” she responds. “I remember seeing a bright light and thinking it was God because there could be no possible way I wasn’t dead.”
I start laughing.
“Don’t you remember pulling off the road cause you were too scared to keep driving?” she continues.
“If you say so. That’s what Lysie said too.”
“That’s cause that’s what happened,” she says to his confused face from her place standing on the rug and I say into the phone at the same time. We have a knack for doing that.
“Yo!” Synchronized sentences always cause this exclamation from him. “Well I guess I’ll have to ask Mommy now—here talk to your sister.” I see him stick his fully extended arm out to her in one sudden, strong motion. He sees the open door. The air-conditioning isn’t running yet since it’s almost a month till Memorial Day, but for other unknown reasons this is wrong. “Hey! Shut the door! What’d you grow up in a barn?” Then he’s in the background.
“Oh Bon…” He draws out the “on.”
“Hello?” Sheri says to me in a somewhat ‘this talking long distance thing is an inconvenience’ tone of voice.
“How was dance?” I ask cheerfully just to piss her off cause we both know the answer—it’s the same answer we both give to everything.
She sighs. “Good.”

My dad locates my mom not too far away, probably in the family room on the couch crocheting a baby blanket for a co-worker’s daughter’s new arrival while the ten o’clock news anchor on NBC 5 nightly news looks at the camera straight on, looks straight into our family room and questions if maybe the upcoming month of May will bring an end to the “war on terrorism.”

I don’t say anything else to my sister, as I want to hear our parents go over the sequence a third time.
In the same nonchalant voice, but with an almost unnoticeable twinge of desperation, he asks my mom, “Do you happen to remember anything out of the ordinary that occurred the night of the Elton/Billy concert last year?”
“You mean when we almost got hit by a train?” She recalls the same sequence he’s just heard twice.
“Huh.” My dad surrenders. “Well if all three of you say it happened it must have happened…huh…unbelievable…”
Sheri and I chat for a few minutes (after laughing when our mom said almost the same sentences we said to him), reminiscing about that infamous night, verifying that we didn’t imagine the whole thing.
“I can’t believe he doesn’t remember that,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “It was like the scariest night of my life!”
“He probably has selective memory,” I add. “He doesn’t want to remember ‘almost killing his family’ so his brain has chosen to block the memory of what happened and create a new, safer one.”

I know at least I, at this present moment, am reliving the word, “Danger.” It sends a shiver through my body that I can’t quite compute as a specific feeling—energy, paranoia, adrenaline, horror—some kind of psychotic mix. Living dangerously is quite exhilarating when you can live to tell about it. After all, we escaped death; we took a rain check on God’s light; we weren’t brave, just lucky, just squeezing through the danger zone with power-locked doors and eight eyes staring.

Suddenly there is piano music.

My sister moves closer to the culprit—my dad—sitting on the bench, his back straight as a railroad track beside the window in the living room, facing the player piano. But I can tell by the sound that he is producing the music with his own fingers, not with a machine-propelled scroll. I have instant flashbacks of my grandparents’ old house when they owned the same piano and my eyes were the same height as the keys and I’d watch my grandma dance around to the same song, before gleefully joining in the fun by shrieking and spinning around in my own corner of the room.

“I don’t know what the heck possessed him to play that song all the sudden,” Sheri says to me.
I had forgotten she was there for a few moments.
“Yeah…well it’s 'The Entertainer,' one of the only six or so songs he’s had memorized since age eight.” I pause. “He’s probably just trying to prove to himself that he can still remember something.”

it's still rock 'n' roll to me!

When my mom asked if I wanted see Billy Joel, my response was something along the lines of, "Hell yes!" Billy's been a favorite of mine for as long as I can remember. In fifth grade English class, Mrs. Frankel had us create our own version of The Jolly Postman, an interactive book of correspondence between fairy tale characters. Already heavily influenced by the music world at age 11, I centered my theme around musicians, one of the recipients being Mr. Joel.





When I found out he was playing the Sears Center in my hometown of Hoffman Estates, IL, I was less than thrilled. I swore I would never go back there after my experience at the Dylan concert last year (read account here: dylan) But I put my differences aside, braved an ice storm (i.e. a normally 25-minute drive turned into a 2+ hour drive) out to the suburbs and accompanied my mom in row H on the floor of the arena.

The show was scheduled to begin at 8:00. Around 8:15 or so the lights went dark and suddenly Billy appeared at the piano surrounded by his fellow band members. He went right into "Angry Young Man." There was a screen hanging on either side of the stage, so everyone could see the musician in action. I have never seen anyone's fingers move like that! I felt like I was suddenly privy to a magician's secret. From the first few notes, I was hooked. I had seen him live one other time my senior of high school during his Dueling Pianos tour with Sir Elton John--still to date one of the best concerts I've ever attended. But we saw them at Allstate (then, Rosemont Horizon) where we sat in the worst seats possible and there were no screens to aide our view of the iconic men and their magic. Oh, and my whole family almost died on the drive home (you can read about that here)

For his second song, he faded into "My Life" by playing a few measures of "Jingle Bells." I thought, "Oh come on, Billy! Hanukkah starts in three days!" I immediately forgot, though, as soon as "My Life" began and jumped to my feet singing along at the top of my lungs--"Go ahead with your own life, leave me alooooone". My mom joined me and I told her, "This is what happens when you get floor seats--they turn into standing seats," as everyone rose to their feet and the only way to see anything was to rise ourselves and stand our tippy toes.

"Hey Chicago!" Billy said, with an exaggerated Shi-cah-go accent. "I'm Billy's dad. Billy couldn't make it tonight...he's probably out drinking somewhere. Thanks for coming out on a night like this. I know you in "Shi-cah-go" are used to this weather. People over here," he motioned behind himself, "are only getting the back of me. Just remember--it's not how bald you get, it's how much head you get." "Hi to those in Milwaukee," he directed towards the only people paying less than $97 for tickets all the way in back on the highest balcony. "Thanks for buying those seats. I need all the money I can get--for my car insurance."
"If you can get this job, I highly recommend it," he shared and then sprayed both his throat and armpits with some concoction he said Madonna made famous, before a rousing rendition of "The Entertainer." Afterwards he introduced his keyboardist, Dave Rosenthal, from New Jersey. Dave played two keyboards at once, one hand on each. Pret-ty impressive if you ask me.
Billy left the 5th song up to the applause of the audience.
1) Summer Highland Falls
2) She's Right On Time ("a Christmas song," he added)
or
3) Vienna

I hadn't heard of any of the choices, but I've always wanted to go to Vienna, so I cheered along with the majority. Number three won. I ended up really liking the song; it's beautiful and the lyrics reminded me of one of my favorite movies: Before Sunrise. "When will you realize...Vienna waits for you..."

"Choo choo" the train whistle sounded, prefacing "Allentown."
He introduced guitarist, Tommy Burns, from Long Island, then said, "That's all for the special effects--this isn't a Justin Timberlake concert." And thank goodness for that. (Ok, fine, I like JT, but nowhere near as much as this guy)
Next up: "Zanzibar"featuring Carl Fisher (also from L.I.) on the trumpet and frugal horn. Then slowing it down a bit with "New York State of Mind," I sat down and got nostalgic about the good times I spent living in NYC, Brooklyn-based sax player, Mark Rivera, bringing me back to those carefree college years wandering the streets NY, inspired and in love.

"Chicago's a good town," Billy said, everyone cheered, and I snapped out of the past and thought--yeah, you're right. "If you're somewhere like Alcatuna, the band looks at me like 'Alcatuna sucks.' But Chicago's a good town."
Nice intro to "My Kind of Town," which ended up being a tease, as he claimed he didn't know any of Sinatra's lyrics past the first verse. My mom thinks he was fibbing. He introduced "Root Beer Rag" by saying that it's difficult to get all the notes right but, "What you'll hear is an authentic rock'n'roll screw up." Again I became transfixed with the wild but calculated moves of his fingers. My mom leaned over and shared similar sentiments, "I just can't get over his fingers!"I will also mention here that, despite my mom having an injured leg, she was up dancing the entire two hours. And I wonder where I get it from...
He introduced his drummer from NYC, Chuck Burgi, after "Movin' Out."

I have mixed feelings about what happened next. I'll let Billy introduce the new song himself (turn up the volume, the recording's not very loud).

He then introduced his "younger voice," Cass Dillon to sing his not-yet-released song, "Christmas In Fallujah."
Watch and cringe. Or sing along if you prefer because the lyrics were close-captioned on the big screen.

Ok, Billy, obviously I appreciated the anti-war message and that the proceeds from itunes sales are going to an organization called Homes For Our Troops, which builds homes for severely wounded veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. In fact, I think "They say Osama's in the mountains/deep in a cave near Pakistan/But there's a sea of blood in Baghdad/a sea of oil in the sand" points out the stupidity behind this drawn-out war. And I think the presence of the the uniformed military personnel chanting "Hu Ha" (or is it "Oo Ra"?) interspersed with the singers singing "Hallelujah" was pretty powerful.
I understand the pride you must feel hearing someone else perform your lyrics and I appreciate that you decided to debut them in my hometown, but do you really, really need someone who looks and sounds like the lead singer of Creed, one of the worst bands on the planet, to butcher what you've created?

There may have been a collective sigh of relief when Dillon left the stage and Billy reclaimed the spotlight with the lighthearted "Keeping the Faith."
He then left the piano and stood center-stage behind a microphone stand and belted out the beginning of "Stand By Me," one of my favorite songs by good ol' Ben E. King. Cameras flashed from all directions, which reminded me of my grudge against this place. I hate when I don't have my camera.
"I didn't write that one," Billy admitted after the first verse. "But I wish I had."
He then returned to the piano and sang "An Innocent Man," interpretive dancing and intermittently snapping his fingers while seated on the piano bench when his hands were free. I snapped along with him and learned that my mom can't snap her fingers. (Later, in the parking lot I also learned she can't whistle.) I didn't catch the bassist's name, but I did hear that he's Australian, which is pretty cool.
"Uno.Dos.Unodostresquatro," a Spanish countdown to "Don't Ask Me Why." Good one.
At its completion, I noticed we were already at song #15, so I turned to my mom and said, "He better sing 'It's Still Rock'n'Roll To me'." Then he played the opposite--"She's Always a Woman To Me." I laughed out loud as I watched the swaying, swooning middle-aged women on the big screen, mouthing the words along with the man of the hour.
The next song-"River of Dreams"-used to play through my mind before I fell asleep at night when I was younger. Made me think of "Where The Wild Things Are." I had forgotten that this number belonged to his repertoire, so it was a nice, upbeat surprise.
He introduced the final member of the band, Crystal, from good ol' Gary, Indiana. "On percussion, vocals, harmonica, sax and everything else on stage..."
I'm not sure if this would be considered a trait of a trained ear or a music addict, but I frequently have the ability to detect a song by the first note or two. "We didn't start the fire!" I cheered. My mom looked at me and said, "You're way better at that than I am." I sang along to the few lyrics I knew. My mom questioned how Joel remembered all the words to that song, and I said, "Well if I can memorize the lyrics to any song I've ever heard, don't you think he'd be able remember his own?"

Based on the sound quality, I kept expecting to see the young rocker from the cover of Glass Houses up on stage and then there's a gray-haired 58-year-old wearing a backwards Chicago Cubs red baseball cap singing "Big Shot," strumming his guitar at a mic stand.

(John Records Landecker, checking out my "oldies jeans" at "bring-your-dog-and-get-free-ice-cream" day at the local DQ, summer '01)

There are some older musicians who still try and act like it's their Glory Days, but not Billy. He's the real thing. There's the badass I came to see! I thought, as he played a teasing intro to my favorite, "It's Still Rock'n'Roll To Me" and used the mic stand both as a baton and to air-guitar.
That song has been an ongoing anthem in my life. First of all, they're the first song lyrics I remember deliberately memorizing. Second of all, it's the song that made me want to be a drummer at age 10. And thirdly, I felt like Billy and I were on the same unapologetic wavelength.

What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing? I had an eclectic wardrobe in my teenager years (including "a bright orange pair of pants", which has toned down over the years, but I still have crazy-clothes tendencies.

What's the matter with the car I'm driving? In high school I drove a 1989 two-door Nissan Sentra (affectionately named Red Ninja) with slashed seats and a radio/tape deck that would only play if you banged the side of it with your fist. A good majority of the school drove fancy sports cars or luxury mobiles. I got a kick out of blasting this song in the parking lot, pissing off the glorified Vikings with my proudly displayed bumper sticker that read, "If dance were any easier, it would be called football."

What's the matter with the crowd I'm seeing? Don't you know that they're out of touch/Should I try to be a straight-A student? If you are than you think too much. Growing up I was always a part of guinea pig programs and classrooms full of the "smart kids." In later years when math and science didn't come so naturally to me anymore, I found solace in Billy's lyrics and probably rebelled by quoting him to my parents.

And, of course: "Everybody's talkin' 'bout the new sound, funny, but it's still rock'n'roll to me." Self-explanatory.

(me and the oldies van at "bring-your-dog-and-get-free-ice-cream" day at the local DQ, summer '01)

He finished out the set with my other favorite, "You May Be Right." In college I made callers sit through the chorus if they reached my cellular voicemail soapbox--I'm gonna do what I wanna do and love who I wanna love (don't worry, I didn't actually say that...I let Billy speak for me).

You may be right
I may be crazy
But it just might be a lunatic you're looking for
"Thank you, Chicago!" Billy said with a wave before the stage went dark. The concept of the encore has always been humorous to me. Obviously the artist is going to return, yet we all stand around cheering our brains out like he might actually leave if we don't strain our vocal chords. Nevertheless, I joined in because it's hard not to get caught up in such a brilliant performance. People started waving their glowing cell phones in the air. I heard the guy behind me say to his friend, "Yeah, cause that's the new lighter." Gross.

Billy played a quick Christmas song intro before transitioning into "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant," a song that made me laugh, reminding me of my friend Cooper singing karaoke at Piece [a pizza, bar, live music joint in my Wicker Park neighborhood].
"Thank you, Chicago!" he said again.
Then a quick "Joy to the World" (not 3 Dog Night, Christmas) intro before "Only the Good Die Young." My mom and I danced next to each other, I wearing my grandmother's shoes, I noted. Three generations (in theory) dancing to a song about defying the confines of church and religion..."They say there's a heaven for those who will wait/Some say it's better but I say it ain't/I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints/the sinners are much more fun..."

As he was playing "Silent Night," I saw him pick up his harmonica. That's right, Billy. You can't leave without playing "Piano Man" or it'll make front-page news: "Piano Man strays from 'Piano Man.'"
"It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday..." Ow! Ow! Crazy cheering for Saturday reference--we can relate to that because it is, in fact, Saturday!
This song reminds me of two things, aside from singing along to it in the car with my parents.
1) I remember bringing my harmonica to my art class senior year of high school and figuring out how to play those parts of the song.
and
2) Dancing, and I mean full-out ballet moves at three weddings, leaping around and weaving in and out of slow-moving couples, not letting my single-status keep me from enjoying the dance floor, where I am truly in my element.

For the final chorus, he let the audience sing without him. And we actually didn't sound half-bad.
"Thank you, Chicago! Goodnight. Happy holidays. Don't take any shit from anybody."

As we were filing out of our row, my mom said, "Oh! We should invite him over for a drink, we live so close!"
"A drink??" My mom does not drink. Although, when I questioned her, she informed me that she had two bloody marys at my dad's office party last night.
"Well--Diet Coke," she said with a laugh.

Outside in the frigid parking lot, I danced my way to the car, ignoring the black ice beneath my feet. It took us over 20 minutes just to get out and onto Route 59, so I turned on the ipod and played Billy Joel songs, which he did not sing. And for good measure, an encore of my favorite: "It's Still Rock 'n' Roll To Me" and drummed the steering wheel in time with the beats. I commented that Billy is one of those musicians who actually sounds better live than he does recorded, which is rare and much appreciated.
We went through the drive-thru of McDonald's and each got a small Coke. Myself, regular and hers, Diet. Cheers to you, Mr. Joel--we love you just the way you are.

just an old-fashioned love song

I know I just posted less than 12 hours ago ...but the point of this blog is to write, not just minorly edit something I wrote several years ago and paste it in here (as i did last night). Plus, I have about four different subjects I want to write about, so I figure if I get started earlier today, then maybe I can post one in the morning and one at night. Plus, I feel like the last few entries were borderline "Debbie Downer," so I wanted to share something more light-hearted. So this first one is for Carrie. I told her my ideas, and she chose this one because it's her "fascination in life." That being the way music and specific songs conjure up vivid memories. (It's now actually been almost 24 hours since the last post because this post got a little out of control, and I’ve been adding to it all day)

The idea to write about this came to me this morning while driving Max to school (that's what i do...I'm a driver.) Max is 12 and only listens to classic rock--our car rides consist of a Led Zeppelin, The Clash, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix rotation--which he mix and matches with the rotation of the shirts he wears, which match those same bands/musicians. Now, I consider myself pretty in tune with the world of music, but there was definitely a period of a few years--I.E. STARTING AT AGE 12!--that I only listened to Top 40 crap. As we approached the Lab School in Hyde Park one such song came on, and I hit the steering wheel and laughed. I turned to Max and I said, "Aaaaand I have not heard this song since--oh--about 1996..." (I was wrong--it actually came out in '97.) "...I can't believe I liked this shit...I mean the main lyric in it is, 'Pissing the night away!'" I then proceeded to sing the words leading up to that oh-so-poetic chorus..."He drinks a whiskey drink/He drinks a vodka drink/He drinks a lager drink/He drinks a cider drink/He sings the songs that remind him of the good times/He sings the songs that remind him of the better times...." Because my brain is THAT cool, I can remember the lyrics to any song I've ever heard before, not excluding the worst ever written. When the "pissing the night away....pissing the niiiiiight away" part came on, Max looked at me with a goofy grin, "Who is this even??" "Good ol' Chumba Wumba! Surprised you've never heard of them..." I answered sarcastically. We only had another stop sign to get through until the drop off zone, but he had had enough of the "Tubthumping" and hit the "CD" button. The haunting sounds of "London Calling" by The Clash filled the Volvo as he got out of the car saying, "See ya."

So back to Chumba Wumba. As soon as I heard the song begin, which is a song I honestly don't think I've heard since 1997, I had this flashback of sitting in our family room at home in front of our relatively new 5-disc CD changer, amidst our annual family Hanukkah party. I had just opened my gift from my sister. Chumba Wumba's "Tubthumper" album. At some point during the pre-holiday season I had added this album to my wish list, but even by the time the gift-giving day rolled around, I was already sick of that stupid song. I remember feeling disappointed upon opening the present (sorry Sheri), but then feeling annoyed at myself for feeling disappointed because she obviously was trying to give me something I had said I wanted. So, to prove that I actually did appreciate the gift, I unwrapped it then and there and stuck it in the CD player....to pollute the brains of all the party guests.

This isn't such a spectacular memory, but I still found it interesting that the second the song began, I felt like I was transported back to that place on the family room floor, as though it was yesterday. And it got me thinking for the rest of my drive home about music memory.

They say the sense of smell is the most memory-provoking sense...which I believe is true. Diane Ackerman says in the opening paragraph to her chapter on "Smell" in her book A Natural History of the Senses (which is quite an interesting read in general if anyone's looking for a good book):

"Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary, and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the Poconos, when wild blueberry bushes teemed with succulent fruit and the opposite sex was as mysterious as space travel..."

Another good read on the topic of smell is Jitterbug Perfume, a novel written by one of my favorite authors, Tom Robbins. Anyway, back to the point--hearing, not smelling. What I wanted to say is that I feel like hearing a song can almost be as powerful as smelling a scent. I wish I had Diane's book here with me in the city (It's part of my library back home in the suburbs) because she also has a chapter entitled "Music and Emotion," which I'm sure would further my point.

For kicks I came up with a list of songs/memories to share with whoever reads this (found below the upcoming photo) As you'll see, some songs only conjure up a brief image of where I was standing when I heard it, while other songs evoke enough details to write an entire novel, but the common thread is that these same images occur every time I hear the songs.

"I Saw Her Standing There" by The Beatles--I turned 17 years of age in November, 1999 (Prince interlude: We're gonna party like it's 19-9-9!). In high school it was customary for people to shower the birthday girl (i don't think guys ever did this...) with balloons and flowers, sometimes a party hat, and adorn the hallways with posters announcing her birthday with embarrassing baby photos. This was one such year...So I was sitting in my Journalism class waiting for the bell to ring, balloons floating next to my desk, and in comes Mr. Jim Wyman. He takes one look at the balloons, his face lights up with a classic Mr. Wyman grin, and he starts snapping his fingers as he slowly makes his way across the classroom singing, "She was just seventeen/You know what I mean/And the way she looked/Was way beyond compare...."

"jesus, etc." by Wilco--I was in love with a guy who wrote me letters. In one such letter (7/02) he talked about how he had just gotten the new Wilco CD (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot) and wrote "You were right about the stars/Each one is a setting sun" followed by "I thought you'd like that." A month later we went to dinner at The Cheesecake Factory before I headed back to NYC for my second year of college. When we got back in my car after dinner, he asked if he could put on YHF. "I want you to hear this song," he said. We sat in the Woodfield Mall parking lot for the duration of the song. The sun was going down, and there was a sadness in his eyes as he lightly touched my hair. That was it. But it gave me shivers. Another month later he called on an 800-mile phone line to tell me, "You're too good to be true. Sorry." Well that was the gist of it anyway. The first track on the album took on a whole new meaning..."I am trying to break your heart"

"That's The Way It Is" by Celine Dion--Another one from junior year of high school...or maybe it was sophomore? Abbi--help. All we did in Mrs. Emmer's gym class was ride stationary bikes. To pass the time, Abbi and I made up an interpretative "dance" to this song...acting out every word, while continuing to ride the bikes. We were that good. We still act it out when we see each other, and it still makes us laugh really hard.

"I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John--I've always been an Elton fan, but I went through an Elton John phase senior year of high school, and I used to put on his CDs while I worked in the darkroom after school. Sometimes when I hear this song, I can almost smell the chemicals.

"Hang On Sloopy" by The McCoys--My dad and I were visiting my parents' friends, Andi and Mike. Our Chrysler minivan was parked in their cul-de-sac. I was probably 8 years old? My dad lifted the trunk door open and stood outside of it. I decided to take the stage and started singing and dancing in the trunk space. Except I didn't know the words and kept saying, "hang on SNOOPY." And my dad was laughing. To this day, I still don't know what "sloopy" is.

"Walking in Memphis" by Marc Cohen--My senior year of high school was also my last year year as a dancer. I took as many extra classes (I already had Dance Company classes twice a week on top of whatever else i wanted to take) as I could fit into my weekly schedule. In my extra ballet class, our dance for the annual June recital was to “Walking In Memphis.” My teacher, Maya, put me in the front row for it. This rarely happened in my dance career. I performed the hell out of that dance on stage. So much so that I think I was crying during part of it…another rarity. Every time I hear this song I’m transported back to that stage, under the bright lights, twirling around like I’d never dance again.

"Run Baby Run" by Sheryl Crow—September 11, 2001. I woke up at 8:10 a.m., 10 minutes before my alarm was set to go off. It was day 3 of my first year at NYU. At 8:20 I jumped a mile in the air when my cd alarm clock did go off, blasting Sheryl begging, “Run baby run baby run baby run baby run…..” Around 8:40 Brianna, my roommate, asked if I wanted to get breakfast with her. I declined. She left. Less than ten minutes later she came running back into the room, yelling—“ OH MY GOD YOU HAVE TO COME OUTSIDE!! A PLANE JUST CRASHED INTO THE WORLD TRADE CENTER AND YOU CAN SEE IT ALL FROM THE FRONT OF RUBIN!” To this day, if I hear this song, my breath gets involuntarily caught in my throat, and the familiar panic sets in.

"Lump" by The Presidents of the U.S. of A.—I was allowed to pick one song to add to the music list for my bat-mitzvah party (you know—apart from the givens—“YMCA,” stuff like that.) I decided that the best option would be the then-popular song, “Lump.” Gotta give it to the Stax O Wax DJs—they actually played it. The adults on the dance floor looked around confused, while all the kids ran to the front and started a mosh pit. Normal.

"Basketcase" by Green Day—Michelle’s basement. Fifth grade. Amy and Carrie were there (yes?) Green Day’s album, “Dookie” was the #1 album in the country. Or, if it wasn’t, it at least was in our eyes. We were obsessed with their hit, “Basketcase,” and despite being the “smart and therefore nerdy kids” in the school, we thought we were total badasses. Especially when we sang that song. So that night we made up body movements to act out all the lyrics. The end of the chorus is, “Am I just paranoid? Or I’m just stoned.” Welllll we thought we had it all figured out and that “stoned” was the same thing as “drunk.” So our motion for “stoned” was throwing back an imaginary glass of beer. Really we were the most innocent 11-year-old girls on the planet, and it wasn’t until several years later that we realized our mistake. We still laugh about it any time the song comes on.

"Ready or Not" by The Fugees—My friends and I had this habit in junior high of hanging out on my driveway. Usually it turned into a dance party. Ok, usually it was just me having a dance party with myself. One particular night, Jenny was over and we were listening to The Fugees album on my boombox. The song “Ready or Not” came on, and I decided that the mood of the song called for me acting as creepy as possible and followed Jenny around the driveway, eyes wide, straight face, singing the song in a freaky manner. It totally freaked her out. I still picture the scared look on her face whenever I hear that song. And she probably still pictures me being a creep.

"Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones--After swim lessons one summer afternoon, I was standing on a patch of grass in front of our van in the parking lot. My mom must have had the Oldies station playing on the radio. I don’t know if I had just learned the meaning of the word “satisfaction” or what, but I have this distinct memory of singing it really loud to the empty field in front of me. Apparently when I was 7 (or however old I was…8 or 9?) I felt as though I couldn’t “get no satisfaction…” (If my mom reads this, I’ll let her share her story about the Rolling Stones’ “Painted Black” song.)

"I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston—In fourth grade I was obsessed with The Bodyguard soundtrack and thought “I Will Always Love You” was the best song ever sung. We were doing this unit where every day a few kids, one at a time, got to sit in the teacher’s chair, while the rest of the class interviewed them. Then, with the collected information, we’d make a page complete with a few sentences about the person and a drawing of them. At the end, each person ended up with a book about themselves, authored by the rest of their classmates. So it was my turn to be in the hot seat. Joey, my “boyfriend” throughout elementary school, raised his hand and asked, “What’s your favorite song?” flashing that charming, mischievous smile. He already knew the answer, but I didn’t get it until after the song title came tumbling out of my mouth. “I will always love you,” I said matter-of-factly. The class erupted in a chorus of, “Oooo la la”s, and when I saw him wink at me with that smile, I turned bright red, realizing he had set me up. When I hear this song, I see myself sitting in the teacher’s chair, facing my classmates, one severely blushing 10-year-old.

"My Boyfriend's Back" by The Angels—For the majority of my early childhood years I had a crush on my next-door-neighbor, Billy. I remember strutting around the cul-de-sac singing this song, or as I called it--the "hey-la song" (as in Hey la Hey la my boyfriend’s back), in hopes that Billy would come outside to play with me.

"Reflections"--by The Supremes—This is only a brief memory, but I can picture myself in the kitchen, and my dad excitedly yelling down from upstairs, “Hey Lyse! Turn on the radio! It’s your song!” I walk over to the clock radio on the desk and turn on the Oldies station. He said it was my song because I had recently won some distinguished award for The Reflections art contest (as a second-grader). I remember standing there until the song ended, thinking Diana Ross was singing only to me. I still hear my dad yelling, “Hey Lyse!” whenever this song comes on the radio.

“The Boxer”—by Simon & Garfunkel—I was sitting shotgun, while my mom was driving. It was nighttime, and I believe we were in the city. This song came on and we were both quietly singing along. I remember noting that it was strange to hear her sing the line: “Just a come on from the whores on seventh avenue.” The combination of the sing-songy voice, the fact that the singer was my mom, and the word whore thrown in there…threw me for a loop.

"Forrest Gump Suite" by Alan Silvestri—And we have come full circle, as this final music/memory note involves Carrie. In 5th grade she convinced me to see Forrest Gump with her because she saw it (I believe with Michelle, mentioned above in the “Basketcase” story) and loved it. I had no desire to see it but went anyway. I ended up falling in love with it, and it was the first movie I ever purchased for myself. I was going to say it was the first soundtrack I ever owned as well, but it was second after The Bodyguard (wow…everything is coming full circle!). Anyway, some time after seeing the movie, Carrie learned how to play the instrumental suite on the piano. I was over at her house one day and she played it for me. As I stood there listening and watching my best friend tickle the ivories, I started to cry. Even then, I thought it was a strange reaction, but I still get mildly choked up when I hear the music.

Please feel free to comment with your own musical memories. Like Carrie, I find the subject quite fascinating. Also--If anyone's read: This Is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession by Daniel Levitin, let me know what you think. I haven't read it, but it looks interesting.

(top photo: taken at South Union Arts in Chicago on 10.19.06
middle photo: Petaluma Vale performing at the Sidewalk Cafe in NYC, April 21, 2005)