on music and men by katie young
I react to music the way that others may react to any other sensory stimuli- sure, there are a few smells or sights that bring forth memories, and sometimes a certain touch will pull me backwards in time. But nothing compares to the way a song completely triggers me. And as a woman who has been “boy crazy” from preschool forward, you can only imagine how songs have been applied and attached to every kind of boy, dude, guy and man I’ve fallen for (and usually recovered from.) These vignettes are my sometimes (ok, most times) teary-eyed, visceral and sincere attempts to translate those truly heart wrenching/doofus grin inducing moments into words. I can’t say why I am this way- be it an already emotional mind, or too many viewings of Almost Famous, but I am who I am, and here they are: my most current thoughts On Music and Men.
PART 4 OF 4 “These guys went to Kent State,” I murmured after minutes of no conversation, Devo playing through the speakers, my feet on the dashboard and my eyes fixed on the New York skyline. You were driving me home as you’d done plenty of times before, but probably wouldn’t again. We had started the way back to my tiny corner of Brooklyn/Queens listening to The Avett Brothers. “Well this isn’t the best choice,” you joked, trying weakly to break the tension while I wiped away stray tears. But I had to laugh- you had been good at making me do so, at least in the beginning. It felt so strange, the two of us, half-smiling, softly singing along to “Whip It” and drumming on our knees when only a short time ago you were pulling on your clothes and shuffling around the room, while I laid silently, nearly naked in your bed. It had been that kind of quiet between us before, on our third date- the one when you made me dinner. It was, again, music that broke it. You foolishly gave me control of choosing a record, so I crouched in front of your collection, trying to make the perfect decision. For a few excruciating minutes the only noise came from your knife hitting the cutting board, water reaching a boil or the occasional throat clearing cough. During the relatively short course of our courtship I tried convincing myself that these silences were ones that indicated a level of comfort. Words didn’t need to be forced and we simply enjoyed being around one another. Though it’s barely been months since we took steps back to become mere acquaintances, I can already see that we were just too different in a few important ways. I picked the Magnetic Fields “69 Love Songs” that summer afternoon, and when I turned the player on and placed the needle down, we discovered the record was warped. It was hot in your apartment, and you were flustered from cooking and I assume, having me around. “Just pick something else,” you said, turning your back to me and wiping your brow. “I can’t deal with that right now.” Though it’s maybe melodramatic to say, that was the attitude we both took as our relationship became more strained. We were out of synch and knew, but refused to discuss it. I wanted it to work so badly and constantly looked for ways we were connected, especially through music. “Ok, favorite Bruce Springsteen song, GO,” I demanded over Gchat. We disagreed, so I tried again. “Ugh, you’re the worst...ok, favorite Cars song, GO.” Again, different, and you chided me for thinking so. All summer we cruised along, you enduring what I’m sure you perceived to be my irritating naivety, and I accepting your rough teasing that eventually wore me down. Now it’s almost winter, and I listen to certain songs, hoping they’ll somehow cause the universe to bring us back together. I’ll slip a Prince song on a playlist and smile to myself, remembering the night Sober You put “Purple Rain” in your room for Drunk Us to discover upon returning home. I even seek out Ted Leo on my old iPod, and can almost feel your hand in my back pocket, pulling me close even though it was a million degrees as we stood at South Street Seaport, craining our necks to catch the aging rocker in action. It’s not likely, I know, but maybe one rainy night I’ll find myself in your passenger seat again, this time Devo filling a more comfortable silence.
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