eternal flame

Not too long ago, apropos of nothing, Frances said to me:

Mama, why were there a hundred million songs on the radio when you and Papa were teenagers? And why did you like them all and how do you know every single word to all of them?

Ah. Well. Maybe if you had been twelve in 1989 you'd understand.

Can you detect the adolescent exasperation brewing? She's already begun to feel burdened by "our" music, the music that we have more or less successfully - up until now - embraced as our family's music. She realizes she wasn't on the scene when I first latched onto this or that song, which must be a little weird and annoying. The truth is we've adjusted our listening habits since becoming parents, eschewing music that explicitly celebrated less-than-wholesome living (goodbye to so much rock and hip hop) and enthusiastically welcoming people like Dan Zanes and Elizabeth Mitchell into our living room. When Jonathan Richman broke up with the original Modern Lovers, he said didn't want to make music anymore that would hurt a little baby's ears. As new parents we endorsed that position. No music that would hurt a little baby allowed! 

Happily, lots of pop music is made out of soap bubbles and doesn't hurt a bit. (Plus at home you can always turn down the volume.) And I guess we like it too much to give it up. Some of you may remember how we encouraged precocious baby Frances, who could identify Johnny Cash, the Kinks, the White Stripes, and others just a few chords into a song. We brought out lots of sixties pop and Pete Seeger and Leadbelly and anything that struck us as quality family listening material. As a toddler, Frances could listen to Pete Seeger sing "I've Been Working on the Railroad" for hours. I started to feel like a crazy person after about four listens.

Now both kids have strong opinions about music. They are often admirably cooperative when I interrupt them mid-sentence in the car to announce that a REALLY good song is on the radio. I turn up the volume and do all kinds of soon-to-be-embarrassing mom dances in the driver's seat. I feel myself reaching back through time, connecting to generations of mothers who have done some version of this to their children. I especially feel like I'm channeling my mother (who I can vividly imagine singing Motown in our minivan) when I drive our new/old 1995 Toyota Camry station wagon. Sometimes I put on - get ready - a cassette and rock out to some college-era mix dug from a pile of tapes I found in a shoebox at my mom's house during our last visit.

But really, what is it about the music of our youth? How does it imprint so indelibly on our brains? Some combination of receptivity and passion, I suppose. Why didn't I spend middle school committing Latin or long Shakespearean passages to memory? Instead of belting out every single word of the Bangles' "Eternal Flame" to Frances and Gabriel, I'd be lulling them to sleep with sonnets and psalms. Did any of you read The Chosen, or other Chaim Potok books? I could have been one of those scrawny Orthodox boys hunched over the Torah, memorizing it forwards and backwards. Instead, I memorized the Smells Like Teen Spirit album and far too many Cure songs to keep straight.

The thing is, it's not just nostalgia. I love to hear an old Pixies song on the radio, sure, but I also love new pop music these days. A good song really does pop; it sparkles, shines, and adds a burst of happy energy to my day. Dishwashing, bath-giving, dinner-making...these little moments are transformed by a good song.

The sad fact that we have to do most of our traveling by car here in Annapolis is ameliorated considerably by WRNR, a local station that plays lots of good, new independent music. I was never energetic or committed enough to read reviews and track down new music (yes, you can file me under 'I listen to my boyfriend's rock music and claim it as my own') but now that I can just turn on the radio, I love it. I try to get my kids on board, with mixed results. Vampire Weekend is a go. Bon Iver proved to be excellent toddler sleeping music. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes meets with ambivalence in the backseat...but I attribute this to how loud I sing along to their single Home (versus the band's actual merits). The more enthusiasm and mom dancing I indulge in, the more I risk losing potential sing-along partners.

I quit piano lessons when I was eleven. I know absolutely nothing about music theory and history. Regardless of my ignorance, some of my happiest memories involve music, especially shared music. Singing campsongs with abandon, singing at church next to my mother and sister, guitars and shakers at various picnics and gatherings, singing at the top of my lungs with friends in a car, all the windows down. Emily Rogers commented on this blog months ago that Pete Seeger said if everyone in the world could participate in regular singalongs, there'd be no war. I'm not entirely sure, but I get what he means.

And better than all those peaceful hootenannies and living room concerts? Singing with my children! Waking up to Gabriel's clear high voice singing "Freight Train," even at 5 am, makes me smile. When we sing grace as a family, when we sing Hi Ho The Rattlin' Bog, when all four of us start into Yellow Submarine, inspired by a t-shirt of Gabriel's...my heart literally starts flapping its little wings, trying to fly out of my chest and into the sky.