When was the first time you heard music? No, not the first Oldies song that you knew all the lyrics to or the Paula Abdul music video that you studied obsessively. When was the first time you realized music would become as important in your life as, say, three meals a day? When did music seemingly embed itself into your genetic makeup? What album, experience, moment, etc. came long with it? AudioVole asked a handful of its contributors these exact questions and here’s what they have to say.
Simon and Garfunkel – “The Boxer”
From: Jennifer Lao
To: AudioVole
My childhood played out to the soundtrack of Simon and Garfunkel. My dad would play their records on the weekends, when the air stood still. I don’t remember much about those times, but I do remember lying across the back frame of our couch in the afternoon, closing my eyes, and letting the sound drape across me. “In the dangling conversation / And the superficial sighs / The borders of our lives.” Now when I look for music, I blindly search for an equivalence; for simplicity and honesty that is undeniable.
Stemming from those roots are dance routines performed to Madonna and Michael Jackson songs when I was six; even at the age of six, I played a mean air guitar. Middle school entailed a lot of hand-me-down heavy metal music from my big sister, which morphed into punk rock towards the tail end of high school. In the context of music, most of that period was a blur.
College is really where music started to consciously take hold of me. Junior year, a guy in my English class made me an Alkaline Trio mix tape; I listened to that cassette every morning for 2 quarters. I couldn’t get enough of the guitar riff around the 2-minute mark of “Southern Rock.” From there, I dove a little too deep into the emo world, resurfaced, and found familiarity in indie music.
I haven’t found a band equivalent to Simon and Garfunkel yet – perhaps I never will since that sound is tied to days that are long gone. However, I have found bands that have held their own and continue to remind me of my love for music. For fun, Lagwagon. For comfort, Cursive. For release, Bon Iver.
Well-crafted music is hard to find. So when I hear music that grabs me, on the radio, in a store, from a car driving by, my mind disengages from whatever I’m doing and my background drops. I fix on the lyrics. Remember the lyrics. Find the song. It feels like a trance. Disturb me and you’ll sense my petulance. Tell me and you’ll sense my restlessness.
“Whatever you need to make you feel / like you’ve been the one behind the wheel
the sunrise is just over that hill
the / worst / is / over.”
Jenn
Keith Jarrett – “Someone To Watch Over Me (Gershwin)”
From: Julia Barry
To: AudioVole
My love of music wasn’t an “aha” moment, just an ongoing wave, until I suddenly didn’t have it in my life. I was drawn to music from literally before my first memory (see Exhibit A, embarrassing family photo albums of Julia at piano with stuffed animals). But after graduating high school, I developed carpal tunnel at a job meant to fund my first summer gigging. (oh, the irony. Someone channel O. Henry.). I thought I’d find ways to keep my love of music nourished, but it became clear that without being involved in musical collaborations, creative endeavors, and shows, I wasn’t quite living. Many musicians have used injury or ill health as a way to become more concise and hone in on their craft, and their music inspired me as I returned to songwriting and performing, listening with even keener, more appreciative ears. One of my favorites: Keith Jarrett came back from a bout with fatigue to make the beautiful, no-frills album, The Melody At Night, With You.
–Julia Barry
Paul Simon – “Graceland”
From: Chris Mollica
To: AudioVole
I had no taste when I was a kid. That statement is probably true for most children, but, dare I say, I was the worst offender. Ever hear of MC Skat Kat? He was the cartoon cat that rapped with Paula Abdul in “Opposites Attract.” Well, MC Skat Kat had a Stray Mob. Together, they released an album. I owned that album, on tape, and would listen to it ad nauseum as I mowed the lawn. Or Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch’s follow-up. Or the Spin Doctor’s second cd. Or anything my brother put on which, for a time, was an unrelenting march of MTV Party to Go “albums.” Then I’d eat a bunch of dried turkey (because gravy was “gross”) and watch an unhealthy amount of televised bowling for a child my age.
Let’s just focus on the music for now.
I didn’t have any awareness. Music merely filled the elevator of my life. Morning Radio (Z-100!) and MTV dictated the input. When I purposely chose something, it was for reasons other than musicality. I’d buy soundtracks because I liked the movies. *cough* I know a good deal of the lyrics to Doug E Fresh’s “Spirit” from Ghostbusters II. *cough* With Skat Kat, I was listening to a damn cartoon. No doubt I was picturing his wily antics.
You often hear about people’s parents introducing them to greats like Clapton or the Beatles by just casually spinning it on the record player. My parents listened to those artists sure enough. Both of them have been to a Hendrix concert. That, however, was not when I knew my parents. The way that some people never get past a break-up or a war, my parents never seemed to get past the 80’s bum rush of smooth jazz and synth. Billy Ocean had a nice stretch in the living room of ol’ 448. I’ve been awoken by the cool sounds of Kenny G on a Sunday morning.
It was in the summer of ’97 when I heard the first few notes of Paul Simon’s Graceland and wondered where the f music had been my whole life. I was in perhaps the coolest place a high schooler can imagine, riding back from water skiing with my older brother and his college friends, but it didn’t matter. I was rapt. I immediately grilled the driver and he handed me the tape case which I pawed for the entire ride home. I read the liner notes, followed along lyrics. My eyes had been opened. Music was sitting here doing beautiful, wild things. Listen to “Graceland.” Follow the joyous rhythm and melodies. The heart leaps. Take in those lyrics: “She comes back to tell me she’s going/ As if I didn’t know that/ As if I didn’t know my own bed.” The heart breaks. That’s the album. Achingly written songs about isolation mixed with melodies of pop, a cappella, isicathamiya, rock, and mbaqanga.
Chris Villa, because he should be mentioned by name, let me keep that tape. I still have it. It was the key and it rests safely in a box in my parents’ garage. It will stay there forever because, like many Americans, I’m sentimental, lazy and will never get around to clearing away artifacts of my past. I still get a huge thrill from listening to Graceland. It changed me indefinitely and remains one of my favorite albums. It also made it possible for me to sit here, late into the early morning, and indulgently tell you how music is great. Then I’ll eat a bunch of turkey with gravy because, luckily, tastes change.
“Oh, so this is what she means.”
Chris
Jimmy Eat World – “Lucky Denver Mint”
From: Sarah Braunstein
To: AudioVole
I have two older sisters. There’s a four-year gap between Kate, the eldest Braunstein girl, and myself (Leah is sandwiched right in the middle) and we were pretty much interchangeable for the first 13 years of our lives. It wasn’t until we each reached the halfway point in high school that our unique “selves” began to take shape. Kate became recognized and respected as the smartest student in her class. Leah was a little more fun and well-rounded, doing a better job with the popularity thing than Kate or myself. And I became, well, the “weird” one. Not in a particularly negative or attention-grabbing way but my interests went down a path that my sisters had never trespassed in their teenage years. I started buying my own CDs. I went to shows at Tower Records and local coffee shops with my similarly strange friends. I played the drums and sometimes lied to conceal my whereabouts from my parents (sorry, mom! It turned out just fine).
There are probably countless studies documenting this sort of thing, but I’m pretty sure that around the age of 15, music took over my brain. It’s not something I ever had any control over; it just happened and subsequently I exhibited new behavioral patterns like constant headphone-wearing and keeping a full spindle of CDs in my car at all times. I was in deep. The first album that I recall feeling overpowered by its hold on me is Jimmy Eat World’s Clarity. In the spirit of full disclosure: I bought the album in the tenth grade after reading an interview with Mark Hoppus in which he named Jimmy Eat World as one of his favorite bands. And then I played Clarity on repeat for months to the disdain of all the regular passengers in my car.
I haven’t fallen for many albums in quite the same way as I did with Clarity. Maybe I’m giving this too much weight, but I’d say the experience is akin to a first serious relationship. I think back on all of the hours I spent with “Table For Glasses” and “Blister” and I get a little red-faced. If I heard Clarity for the first time today, I’d probably think “yeah, that’s okay” and move along (which is also how I feel about my first boyfriend). But even if it is a little embarrassing, my experience with Clarity was surely more formative than the subsequent 100 records that I listened to. Anyway, I’m sure your first boyfriend or girlfriend was kind of a dweeb, too.
“For me, this is heaven.”
Sarah
AudioVole 
Discussion
No comments yet.