This songs matters to me, because: (your explanation here)

I'm sorry to hear that, W-b. If your father gave you nothing else, at least he showed you what was most important about being a father -- by not giving it to you.

 

A couple of short ones:

Wonderful Tonight, Eric Clapton - I remember sitting in my mom and dad's bedroom, watching my mother getting ready to go out on a date with my dad. Blonde hair, black dress. She was beautiful then and today, even in her 50s, she is shamelessly hit on every day. Young guys, old guys. Right in front of me. They think I'm her brother.

Anyway, this song was playing on that particular night and I always think of my mom and dad (not the biological) when I hear it. The day of my wedding (elopement) my mom, my wife's dad and us went out drinking at a couple of bars in a beautiful city in the South. I asked my mom to dance when this song came on. We were happy, a little drunk ... it was just a shared moment.

Last one:

Wonderful by Everclear:

Another cliched song but one of my all time favorites. Brings back more of those unwanted feelings from childhood but helps me embrace them. In many ways, this is a positive song to me. I'm not sure why. This was actually the very first song I played in my car when we took the baby home from the hospital. Maybe some of the psychiatrists here can figure that one out:

Promises mean everything
When you’re little and the world so big
I just don’t understand
how you can smile with all those tears in your eyes
and tell me everything is wonderful now

 

I can't listen to "Wonderful Tonight" without thinking of my first girlfriend. I was -- and probably still am, though I haven't tried it since college -- an awful dancer. But I could slow dance like no one's business. This girl knew what an incredible sack of uncoordination I was, so she didn't bother trying to get me out on the floor during a fast song. Inevitably, however, "Wonderful Tonight" spun. I got out of my chair, grabbed the girl and spent the next five minutes staring into her eyes, telling her how much she meant to me. We probably danced to it a half-dozen times in four years. We didn't have a song, per se -- though I dedicated MxPx's "Without You" to her -- but this one would be the closest to it.

 

Once again Mike, you hit the nail on the head.

Sorry to see that your biological father was such a dick W-b, but it looks like you learned what NOT to do as a father from him ... and what to do from the man you consider your real father.

 

Good call DD, I've been doing this with most of the songs on the thread.

A couple of you mentioned "Wonderful Tonight" and in doing so brought back a vivid memory that goes to show just why this thread is so great: all it takes is one song, or even the mention of one, to cause a scene from your past to come rushing back.

I know a lot of people have happy, loving memories tied to "wonderful tonight" and I don't mean to sully those, but hey, we each associate songs with different things, right? Until reading this thread tonight, I had forgotten the night in question, but now it's back, so I guess I'd better share.

The basic ingredients of the night should have made for a great time: a lively bar, plenty of beers, good friends and a woman sitting next to me who indeed looked wonderful that (and every other) night.

Slight problem with Ms. Wonderful, however. She was that friend (we've all had one, right?) that I so badly wanted to be more than a friend, but wasn't sure if she was on the same page. I spent more time than I'd like to admit wishing this girl was more than a friend without ever having the balls to do anything about it. I can usually tell after a little while if a girl is into me, but for some reason with this one, I couldn't.

Well, needless to say, we had all had a few drinks, and when the old guy playing guitar started up with the Clapton, one of the couples with us went to dance. My obsession, blissfully tipsy, asked me if I too wanted to dance. Now, like you Mike, I'm not much of a dancer, but with the proper combination of booze and beauty, I'll be doing the white-man's overbite without hesitation.

As we danced--in a way much closer than "just" friends should--I soaked it all in. The atmosphere of the bar, the smell of beer, a crowded room and her hair just under my head, creating an oddly intoxicating odor. It was in that moment, that dance, that I decided I had had enough of not knowing, I had to tell her.

So after chickening out for another couple of weeks, I finally got around to it. I told her that I loved our friendship, and that what I was about to say could mess things up, and then I told her how I felt. She was a bit surprised, but said she had suspected for a while. I was hoping for some dramatic kiss, but instead was told that she needed time to think about it.

Time, it turns out, is a real bastard. All time did was make our friendship awkward as hell until she told me that she just didn't have those feelings for me. We've stayed friends, and though it took a while, I've moved on, but I'll still always think of that night, that dance, and that girl when "Wonderful tonight" comes on the radio.

Sorry for the downer story, and I hope I didn't ruin a happy song for anyone.

 

Though not a happy tale, that's a cool story, my paste-eating friend. We've all been there, I'm sure. You never know until you take the chance. And even though it didn't end the way you envisioned, it's probably for the best. A lot of people never get the courage. You've got that, sir. Good for you.

 

Maybe the paste eating is where things went wrong.

Thanks for the kind words, I guess it's better to have found out. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

 

Bump it with a trumpet.

 

The song I'm writing about now is one of those songs I started out loving, but went away from (at least partially). The difference, however, is that I now find the studio version of this song all but unlistenable. However, whenever I hear it live, it has a kind of energy that makes me sit up and cheer whenever I recognize it's coming.

That song is Stand Back by Stevie Nicks. It's a song I always loved (of course, it came at a time when I could listen to Stevie sing the phone book), but I can remember the complete shock I felt when I heard her perform it with Fleetwood Mac for the first time. I was sitting in my aunt's bedroom and watching Fleetwood Mac's Tango in the Night concert video and that defiant synthesizer told me something was different. I couldn't believe that Fleetwood Mac was actually doing a Stevie Nicks solo song, but here it was.

Stevie came out swirling the bottom of her dress, wearing a black cape with gold polka dots that I would later learn was a trademark of her live performances of the song. I remember telling my aunt excitedly that Fleetwood Mac was performing a Stevie Nicks solo song, unable to believe it myself. I would later find out that Fleetwood Mac performing that song was not a surprise; starting with the Tango In The Night tour, they performed it on every tour that Stevie Nicks was part of.

As I mentioned before, I find the studio version all but unlistenable now. If I hear it on the radio somewhere, I'll still get excited, but if it comes up on my iTunes, I'll skip it. When I got Fleetwood Mac's boxed set 25 Years: The Chain, a live version of Stand Back was on it. I'd later find out that it was the same version as the video, but I still was floored that I had a live version in my hands, and that it was a Fleetwood Mac performance of the song. I later saw her do the song on the Street Angel tour in 1994 when I took my father to see her for his birthday. I saw it when she toured to support Enchanted, her own boxed set in 1998.

By then, I was fully into the Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks Internet community and I'd come across several live versions of Stand Back. Even though I was now sick of the studio version, I would eagerly await the live versions, never knowing what to expect because each one would be somewhat different. I'd play each version over and over again so that I'd be intimately familiar with every twist and turn of the vocals.

However, one night, I played the song on what ended up being the saddest night of my life so far. I was playing the version from Fleetwood Mac's last show with the full Rumours line up on stage (at the Capital Centre in Landover, Md.) on repeat down in the basement. My grandmother called about 9:30 or so to tell us that my aunt was being taken to the hospital. A few months prior to that, she had a mini-stroke and had been diabetic much of her adult life. My dad and his partner had come back from visiting her earlier in the day. I'd fallen way behind on around the house chores and stayed home to catch up. After they got back, Mark (my dad's partner) had a look of concern on his face and said, "you should have been there to see her."

Well, the phone rang again at 10:04 p.m. This was May 16, 1999, a night I'll never forget. I don't know why, but when that phone rang and I saw the clock to etch the time in my mind, I knew what would happen. I then raced up the steps of the basement and through the kitchen and foyer until I hit the bottom two steps. It was there that my worst fears were confirmed. I heard Mark say, "She died?!" All of a sudden, the mountain of work-related projects and logistical nightmares of multiple commitments the next day were the last thing on my mind. My aunt was my godmother. She took off a month from work when I was born to help my mother take care of a baby born 2 1/2 months too early. She later became a sisterly figure as I grew older. She didn't have children of her own, so she and I had a bond that I can't describe. And now, she was gone.

It's not very often when I hear the song or even the version I was playing that I think of that night, but that was the night when Stand Back took on a more personal meaning to me. I can listen to it now and separate myself from that moment, but I can never forget the night that some part of my heart died.

 

Ah ... demo tapes.

Thanks.

 

Came across this quite while reading the other day, and thought it was appropriate for this thread:

"There are rare moments when musicians together touch something sweeter than they've ever found before in rehearsals or performances, beyond the merely collaborative or techincally proficient, when their expression becomes as easy and graceful as friendship or love. This is when they give us a glimpse of what we might be, of the best of ourselves, and of an impossible world in which you give everything you have to others, but lose nothing of yourself. Out in the real world, there exist detailed plans, visionary projects for peaceful realms, all conflicts resolved, happiness for everyone, for ever -- mirages for which people are prepared to die and kill. Christ's kingdom on earth, the workers' paradise, the ideal Islamic state. But only in music, and only on rare occasions, does the curtain actually lift on this dream of community, and it's tantalisingly conjured, before fading away with the last notes." -- Ian McEwan, Saturday

 

At one time, Oasis' "Slide Away" was just another song, a catchy ballad that seemed a perfect closer for a mix CD.

Well, until Beth came into my life freshman year.

To be honest, the girl wouldn't blow anyone away. She was a little heavy. She smoked. She had a ton of baggage (rape victim, bipolar disorder, family issues) that somehow became common knowledge within the dorm.

But she never stopped visiting her circle of friends -- myself included -- on the first floor of Atkinson Hall.

At first, we mostly traveled in groups, the Friday treks to frat row, late night burgers at Eat N' Park, walks to 7-11 in the dead of winter for the nastiest chili dogs known to man.

Then things got out of hand one night -- I was sooo fucking wasted and probably should've been arrested -- the decision was made to take a break from drinking. On one of those lonely nights, in a place between bored and depressed, I heard a knock on the door.

It was Beth, who wanted to see how I was holding up. We ended up talking and laughing all night. About her dumbass ex-boyfriend throwing a parking boot in the Allegheny River. About her cat Zenny. About whether Brian May was better guitarist than Jimmy Page.

As far as friends go, we became inseparable. But she wanted more.

Everytime she made an advance (there were many), I turned the other way. Not because I didn't like Beth, but because of my friends' -- one class act deemed her "too fat to fuck" -- immature bullshit.

I didn't want to be a running punchline, and ignored her calls all summer.

Then, in July, my aunt was killed in a car accident while visiting her sister overseas. I didn't expect Beth to attend the viewing, especially since we hadn't spoken in months, but there she was.

That moment shook me to my core. I had someone wonderful, someone who brought out the best in me, basically everything I wanted in a girl, and was blowing it.

In the end, I guess I did. We tried the whole dating thing, but it just didn't work. My past indecision certainly played a role.

The breakup hit me like a ton of bricks, and became worse whenever "Slide Away" popped up on Windows Media Player:

I need you now - you've knocked me off my feet
I dream of you - we talk of growing old
But you said please don't

To me, this part of the song is pretty blunt: One person in the relationship wants to keep going, while the other has moved on.

I never imagined that 'person' would be me.