This article is part of McSweeney’s series inspired by Nick Hornby’s Songbook, which I liked even though I’d never heard many of the songs he wrote about. I’m quite familiar with Penny Lane, however, despite the fact that—like Lauderdale’s parents—my parents didn’t take too much of an active role in my musical development. I spent hours lying on the living room floor, staring at the cover of Sgt. Pepper while I sang the lyrics I knew by heart, as they’d been so thoughtfully printed up right there. Reading and singing! Woo! I also spent a lot of time with Simon & Garfunkle and CCR.
The article made me think back to my first parent-influenced musical experience: I was four or five years old—we still lived in “the old house”, so I couldn’t have been older than five—and my dad called me into the darkened living room and put a set of gigantic headphones on me. I will never forget my fascination when the sounds of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon seemed to travel though the spiraling wire and chase each other around my head, from ear to ear. It was the bells and clocks at the beginning of Time (which I also remember my dad sneaking into the bedroom he shared with my mom, and blasting it to startle her awake. She’d jump and curse: “Goddammit, Jim!” and I would laugh and laugh).
I didn’t really learn the lyrics until I could read, and I didn’t understand much if anything, but it was all great preparation for spending the latter parts of high school wearing tie-dyed shirts, a frayed denim skirt, and no shoes.
I got over that, but I admit that I was eager to try playing the album as a sound track to a muted Wizard of Oz. I’ll still listen to Dark Side of the Moon every once in a while. I’m sure my dad would cringe if he knew it made me think of him.
2 comments:
God, the only Pink Floyd I ever remember is Wish You Were Here, which the hippie stoners across the hall from me my freshman year of college played over and over again. If I ever hear it now it fills me with nostalgia for the young, oh so young, 18-year-old me, listening to James Taylor in my own room and smoking cigarettes out in the hall with Angela, who has since completely disappeared from my life.
Anything Moody Blues transports me to high school, and my high school boyfriend Frank, who was a hopeless romantic. And James Taylor is now bittersweet, after listening to his greatest hits tape again and again on a midnight drive back from Maryland where the first real love I'd ever had had just dumped me cold.
I think music is akin to our sense of smell - much more evocative than words or pictures. It just hits you right where it hurts.
I think it's odd that Carl didn't ruin any music for me. We loved BNL, Counting Crows and Hole together. I don't have any trouble listening to The Smiths, Beastie Boys or Bjork. Beck and the Stone Roses are no problem.
I had expected the music we listened to as a couple would be intolerable, but that's just not the case. And I'm glad.
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