Sweet Sounds

One of the advantages of living alone is that it affords one the opportunity to enjoy listening to music.  I’m not talking about background noise from the television or radio.  I’m alluding to just sitting in a dimly lit room, engaged in no activity other than enjoying sound.  My tastes are rather eclectic. Tonight I have been listening to classical; no one specific, just some compilation albums I have.  The reader should not think this is a snob play.  I am no aficionado. I know very little about classical music.  I have identified a few composers whose works have inspired me to learn their names and recognize their styles.  I know that Mozart was crazy and the Beethoven was deaf and crazy but I am no real student of the genre.  To me music evokes serenity; an emotional response based solely on feeling.  It’s very rare for me to not be thinking about something.  But with the lights low and my ears bathed in the sounds, my mind can wander anywhere without purpose; no apologies necessary. Earlier in the week, I was listening to rock and roll; The Eagles, Brian Setzer. Def Leppard provided the sound track for last night’s cerebral wanderings.

I have always been a loner.  I’m not a social basket case. I have (a few) friends that I consider very close.  Outside of that I do not really belong to a wider circle.  As you knew me in my professional career this revelation might seem a bit counter intuitive.  But leadership requires a bit of glad handing and showmanship. The problem with acting a role is that one may not have been as successful as one thought, and the minions won’t tell. But in spite of the bombastic rhetoric and the concern shown for others, it was all a performance. Afterward I would retreat to my office, or better yet my car, to be alone and recharge my batteries.

I know that many people are uncomfortable being alone.  There seems to be a common trait among people that prefers company. They must be in touch. You can see this everywhere you look since the introduction of digital connectivity into our society.  People are now so tuned in to their social media that they are totally oblivious to the persons around them. They walk down the street with their ears dammed by sound buds and their visual focus confined to the screen of their smart phone or iPad. I am so thankful that I was born to a generation that walked with their heads up and attention focused on the immediate environs.  It just scares me to think how many beautiful women I would have missed glimpsing had I not been paying attention to where I, and they, were going.

So where did my need for solitude originate?  Is it genetic or learned?  Since I am an only child and was always able to retreat to my room and leave the outside world behind, I have an inkling it was more environmental that congenital.  But it is certainly a keystone feature of my personality.

When I was a young man, say ten or twelve years old, it was not uncommon for me to go on solo walks around the Casa de Oro area that lasted for two hours or more.  I was probably more familiar with the street layout than the local fire fighters.  I particularly enjoyed these excursions in summer when there was plenty of light remaining in the late afternoon and early evening and the temperature had begun to drop. As I remember these walks, I am mystified by the scarcity of other strollers or even families enjoying the evenings in their yards.  But on street after street, in house after house, you would see the same flicker of the television on the ceiling through the living room window; cocooned away with electronic heroin. And in those days, there was nothing but reruns in summer.  Do you remember having only three or four channels to watch? 

When I achieved driving age the pattern was the same; the car adding only to the distance that could be covered in the allotted time.  And the real freedom came with the purchase of my own car; no more, “Dad, can I have the keys to the Buick?”  Yes, dad was still a Buick man, used of course. And to make a connection (tenuous as it is amid these ramblings) now I had music. First there was the AM radio Pontiac so generously provided as standard equipment. Then, after a few paychecks granted in exchange for labor at the A&W, I was able to add an eight-track tape player.  A 1966 Le Mans with a Pioneer stereo; I was king of the road.

My music preferences were a bit less eclectic in those days, restricted more by lack of experience and exposure than refinement of taste.  I had all the Beach Boys albums.  My country collection included guys like Waylon Jennings (before he and Willey Nelson became outlaws) and Tom T. Hall, Dave Dudley singing about bringing the big rig home and of course, Johnny Cash lamenting being named Sue.

I feel at this juncture it is appropriate to explain my affinity for Country Music.  It is my opinion, therefore very true, that much of the Pop and Rock music of the 1960s sucked. Iron Butterfly’s Ina-Gadda Da Vida; Tony Joe White’s Poke Salad Annie; The Beatles; everything after Help!: This is what passed for music? I just could not get into the scene, man!

So I retreated to what I had heard my parents listening to as a kid.  I’m not going to defend its artistic brilliance, but at least I could sing along with the lyrics without compromising my intellectual integrity.  So you could find me, cruising around greater San Diego, windows down (while the AM radio was a standard feature, air conditioning was not) belting out Ahab the Arab with Ray Stevens, “He’s the Sheik of the Burnin’ Sands!”

At long last, the 1970s arrived and Rock music was again musical.  We got great groups like The Eagles singing about Lyin’ Eyes. There was the soul movement with the Temptations and The Four Tops. The south rose again powered by Lynyrd Skynyrd and Molly Hatchet.  Aerosmith looked like a lady.  ELO introduced sophistication by adding cellos to the mix. And Boston gave us More than a Feeling.  Maybe it was because the music was now being served with alcohol but it sure seemed to offer more than the acid laced crap of the previous decade!

Then MTV took us a whole different direction in the 1980s.  The show was just as important as the music.  We replaced our cassette decks with CD players and our muscle cars with sports cars.  And the music got more lyrical: Robert Palmer was Addicted to Love; Peter Gabriel hit us with a Sledge Hammer; The Cars had us Shake It Up.  Van Halen dumped that troglodyte David Lee Roth and picked up the soulful vocals of Sammy Haggar. And Def Leppard poured some sugar on us.  The eighties were a party time and it’s a wonder I can remember anything about it.  But it sure was fun!

As I’ve aged, my tastes have broadened a bit.  I found the Blues and Swing; Big Joe Turner and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.  My collection is comprised mostly of what you would call Oldies.  And I do have a lot of early Rock and Roll from the fifties and sixties, stuff I consider oldies.  But it’s all just background noise if you don’t take time to sit and listen to it.  And thankfully, I have remembered that lesson.