Mix Tape

In a recent post, I alluded to the fact that I had joined a band. Historically, I left the live music side of music to my brother, Josh (a Berklee grad and hugely talented saxophone player). My niche was theater.

But, last summer, during a vacation with my brother-in-law (also a musician) he and I spent some time kicking around songs together. He suggested that one night, when we were out, we should play with a local band he knew. I agreed.

It was an awesome little southern bar in Raleigh, NC and I was so happy singing that I couldn’t stop thinking about it after the night had ended.

When I got back home, I searched Craigslist for any local bands that might be looking for a singer. After a few auditions, I found a good fit and I was welcomed into a great band of people who are rapidly becoming my family.

Today, I was thinking about what songs I would have on my mix-tape (what’s up 90’s kids!) if I were to make one of my life.

Want to know what I came up with?

Come with me.

I’ll tell you a story.

It starts with Raffi. And foggy memories of my mother and father. Orchestra seats for a concert. Bananaphone. Baby Beluga. I was probably 5.

Then we move to Peter and the Wolf. Josh and I downstairs in our house in Connecticut. Old plaid couches. Wood paneled walls. Listening to the movements.

Imagining Peter.

Crying about the wolf.

My dad would always have Moody Blues on the stereo during the weekends. I would sometimes sit in the living room and close my eyes and imagine the different seasons. I loved “Spring” especially, and would bounce around on the furniture pretending to be a ballerina. I was maybe 7 or 8.

Next, is an up-beat, synthesizer-ey CD called Deep Breakfast that my mom bought one day at the mall while we were shopping in a cool store called The Nature Company. We had just had A&W root beer floats and curly fries. We wore that CD out. There was one song where you could hear whales talking to one another. I can still see the song list on the CD insert.

Of course, there were a few artists in constant rotation. Those artists are so finely connected with my memories that I feel that they shaped my childhood. They are so important to me that I play them now when cooking dinner or hanging out with the kids in hopes that my babies will better understand me and the music.

Billy Joel. James Taylor. Pink Floyd.

I was 10 years old. 13 years old. 14 years old.

And now, 27 years old.

30 years old.

34.

When I was a Freshman in high school I had a crush on a senior who, of course, barely knew I existed. One day after chorus practice, he drove me home in his Jeep. He played Nirvana’s Polly Wants a Cracker. I was shocked at the first two lines, “Polly wants a cracker. I think I should get off her first.”

I memorized the song in case he ever drove me home again.

He didn’t.

I pretended to like Nirvana for a while because everyone else did. Especially my best friend, Kerry (who was light years cooler than me). I remember watching her skinny fingers pick out the notes on her guitar in her room.

She’s still cool, by the way.

And plays a mean guitar.

Natural Woman will always remind me of my mother. There is a strength to that song. A softness.

When I was about 17, I went through a weird Bette Midler phase. Even today, I think it’s Gonna Rain  takes my breath away.

Freshman year in college, while dating a runner who taught me how to laugh, I listened to Ben Folds Five until the CD was scratched to bits.

At my wedding, I danced with my father to Paul Simon’s Father and Daughter.

With my mother to Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide.

I made a CD for Zachary’s open heart surgery for the surgeons to play while he was on bypass in hopes he would be able to feel me in the room. I can’t even type that line without crying, my memory of my desire for him to know I was with him was so strong. The first song was James Taylor’s Carolina.

See?

My childhood given to him wrapped sweetly in a few notes of an important song.

I rocked Zach to Cat Stevens’ Father and Son.

I still sing Zoe Somewhere over the Rainbow and Baby Mine (another Bette Midler classic) as I scratch her back and help her to sleep.

Very recently, I haven’t been able to get enough of Sara Barreillis’ Gravity.

It’s the mix-tape of my childhood.

It’s the CD compilation of my present.

I guess now it would be a playlist, right?

It’s music folks; it’s all good.

The end.