by Marisa Pesa
When walking into a Wendy’s last Friday, I didn’t expect to be hit with a wave of nostalgia. But I was slammed. Playing on the radio was Steely Dan’s “Reelin in The Years.” Strangely enough, the right three chords can make me cry. Anytime I hear Steely Dan I immediately recollect memories of car rides with Mom in the family Durango.
To some extent, music shapes the stories of our lives. We tend to associate specific songs with people, events, places, and emotions. My good ole’ librarian comes to mind whenever I jam out hard to Nine Inch Nails and memories of a trip to the Bahamas flood in when I pop in Fall Out Boy’s album “From Under the Cork Tree.” A collaboration of a thousand-and-some songs can serve as a timeline, documenting specific periods in our lives.
Sometimes we even try to purposefully associate a song with an event to improve our chances at remembering something. Occasionally this works and other times it’s useless. Chances are most of us will not have a clue as to what our class song was by the time we hit 30. The song that you and your boyfriend Bobby shared will become some obscure jingle that’ll be resurrected twenty years down the line, only to be played in a commercial for kitty litter.
I shall use one of my favorite shows, Gilmore Girls, to demonstrate this theory. In that fateful episode in which Rory loses her virginity, she tells Dean she wants to match the moment with a song, and what song could be sexier than “Candy Man?” I’m sure that everyone would want to associate their first time with Sammy Davis Jr. singing about making groovy lemon pies and sprinkling the world with questionable sounding dew to make the world taste good. Or better yet, in Silver Lining’s Playbook, Bradley Cooper’s character shows how a song as beautiful as Stevie Wonder’s “My Cherie Amour” can muster up emotions strong enough to medicate someone.
It goes without saying that one song will not evoke the same feelings within different people. Journey, as I’m sure, defines the eighties for my parents, while, for me, Journey is the epitome of all things demonic. The number of times I’ve been subjected to “Don’t Stop Believing” at dances or weddings is sickening; white noise now replaces any trace of Steve Perry preaching at me to hold onto that feeling. The only feeling the song now evokes is intense anger, making me want to fill all Steve’s orifices with salt.
With friends I like to play a little game I ingeniously named the what-does-this-song-do-for-you game. Like a psychiatrist, I’ll tell my contestants to pop a squat, relax, and tell me the first word that comes to mind when the opening cords of a popular song plays. My sister always tanked at it, but that had to do with more of the fact that her 12-year-old self had not yet experienced anything ground breaking to start the music association memory ball rolling.
Every day I thank the heavens above that my parents introduced me to relatively good music. With that being said, Van Halen encompasses all that is my childhood. Whenever I hear “Jump” at a party or Cavs game, my mind immediately jumps back to car rides with my Dad, where he would be apt to drum off the steering wheel and play an imaginary synth on my arms.
“Semi-Charmed Life” might be another overplayed nineties song for you. And if you’re not entirely sure if you’ve ever even heard this song, I curse a plague upon you and your pets.
Third Eye Blind puts to music my whole high school experience. On the morn of my graduation, my corny Mom chose to wake me with “Graduate.” Looking back, I realize Third Eye Blind’s music lacks artistic merit but that deficiency wasn’t necessarily important. What mattered most at the time was what the songs meant to me at that point in my life.
Just as individual songs serve as little pods of memories, entire albums can also document specific time periods. The Rolling Stones album Sticky Fingers, released in 1971, defined summer 2013 for me.
Music is timeless. Music speaks for generations. The Beatles created the soundtrack of the 60s. When you think of the 90s, either Nirvana or Mariah Carey comes to mind. That’s why the oldies stations are still kicking; they portal listeners back to eras gone but not forgotten. They offer the geriatrics (sorry Mom) an escape from life‘s present drudgery to a youthful, vibrant time when their music ruled the airways. In the future, Generation Y’s tunes will clog these stations, if we have radio stations, with NSYNC, T-Pain, Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift topping the list of over-played favorites.
In my opinion music plays a huge role in relationships. When you make some significant gal or fella a mix CD, you’re more than likely hinting you want in their pants (or at least that you desire a peek at their undies collection). But when you really think about it, the motive behind making a CD or mix-tape is a bit egocentric; we want our listeners to associate us with the music we “give” them (At least I know I want my friends’ passing thoughts of Billy Joel to be accompanied by my gorgeous face).
As opposed to CDs, mix-tapes were so special because you were crafting an experience. Each tape told a story, so it was crucial that the tracks had this fluid flow from song to song. The death of the mix-tape is another example of how our generation got jipped yet again; however, don’t be alarmed boys and girls. The website everyonesmixtape.com allows you to make pseudo-mix-tapes. The homepage helps my case, for there are themed tapes that serve as appropriate soundtracks for night driving, steamy make out sessions, or summer BBQs.
Music surrounds us. Our minds and ears need to be on guard; we’re always susceptible to subconsciously associating music with the best and worst moments of our lives. You don’t want to be caught crying over a frosty.
mpesa@capital.edu
