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

Sorry to hear it, TB. Great story, though.

 

The strongest emotional bond I've ever made with a song is R.E.M.'s "Find the River."

I'll try to explain this as best I can, although I'm not sure I grasp it entirely.

In 1993, I was 23, had been listening religiously to R.E.M. for a decade and had been out of my parents' house for about four years. And the album that contained "Find the River" -- "Automatic for the People" -- had been out for a year. I knew the song, and I already loved it.

I was living in a place a long way from where I'd grown up, and I remember going out for a late-afternoon drive that autumn. I was driving alongside a river, listening to the song, and the lyrics hit me in a particular way:

<i>Me, my thoughts are flowers strewn
An ocean storm, bayberry moon
I've got to leave to find my way ...</i>

I remember feeling old at that moment. Not in a bad way, just not a kid anymore. I had always been pretty immature, and often still am, but I just had this feeling of "OK, old boy, you're down the path of your life and you can't turn around and make the choices over again."

I kept driving, crossed a bridge, and came up the other side of the river. And all the while, I kept replaying the song ...

<i>The river to the ocean goes
A fortune for the undertow
None of this is going my way
There is nothing left to throw
Of ginger, lemon, indigo
Coriander stem and rose of hay
Pick up here and chase the ride
The river empties to the tide
All of this is coming your way</i>

Somewhere on the way back to my apartment, I pulled into a turnout there, turned off my car and wept a little bit. For the first time in my life, I felt like a man, and I was feeling the things that a grownup should feel: exhilaration at being alive, regret for decisions I'd made, anxiety about my future, excitement about the possibilities.

I can't tell you why that song affected me that way, that day. But it did, and I can't listen to it without thinking of all those things.

 

I have issues.

I mean, there's got to be something wrong with me.

No, I don't quit things before I'm finished (hi, Bob Knight!) or post 2,500 times in a month's span (hi, Mikey!). I just, for whatever reason, can't maintain lasting friendships. Hell, I don't talk to my college friends all that much.

I had a best friend in fifth grade, a different one in sixth, another in seventh. Then, in eighth grade, I lost my mom after a long fight with breast cancer and moved across state.

Less than two weeks into my new life, one filled typical teenage anxieties and the horrible, burning image of my beautiful mother lying in a casket that wouldn't escape my thoughts, I met Jeff and Nate at a basketball court down the street.

They were identical twins and they could fucking ball. Soon enough, I sided with them in a pickup game -- I helped the cause by sinking a few key shots down the stretch -- and we later swapped numbers.

The next day, I'm over their house, doing cannonballs in their aboveground swimming pool. I came back everyday for probably the next three years or so.

The three of us did everything together.

We watched Kordell Stewart throw away the '97 AFC title game in his uncle's tricked-out black n' gold RV. We went to summer camp two years in a row. We rushed Jeff to the hospital after ripping up his knee playing backyard football. We tried out for our state-ranked high school hoops team, but missed the cut. We went on a triple date and they set me up with my first (and so far, favorite) girlfriend.

Then, as most kids that age do, we lost touch after graduation. Nate joined the Air Force and got married; Jeff opted for the Marines and has been everywhere from Iraq to Japan.

We still talk occasionally on MySpace, but it's not the same. From my experiences, friendships aren't like light switches --in most instances, you can't turn things back on and expect them to shine as brightly.

Things change. People change.

Friends go their seperate ways, which is the crux of The Jam's brilliant, heartbreaking "Thick as Thieves":

Times were so tough, but not as tough as they are now,
We were so close and nothing came between us - and the world -
No personal situations.
Thick as thieves us, we'd stick together for all time,
and we meant it but it turns out just for a while,
we stole - the friendship that bound us together -

We stole from the schools and their libraries,
We stole from the drugs that sent us to sleep,
We stole from the drink that made us sick,
We stole anything that we couldn't keep,
And it was enough - we didn't have to spoil anything,
And always be as thick as thieves.

Like a perfect stranger - you came into my life,
Then like the perfect lone ranger - you rode away - rode away,
rode away - rode away.

We stole the love from young girls in ivory towers,
We stole autumn leaves and summer showers,
We stole the silent wind that says you are free,
We stole everything that we could see,
But it wasn't enough - and now we've gone and spoiled everthing,
Now we're no longer as thick as thieves.

You came into my life -
Then like a perfect stranger you walked away - walked away -
walked away - walked away.

Thick as thieves us - we'd stick together for all time,
and we meant it but it turns out just for awhile,
we stole the friendship that bound us together.

We stole the burning sun in the open sky,
We stole the twinkling stars in the black night,
We stole the green belt fields that made us believe,
We stole everything that we could see.

But something came along that changes our minds,
I don't know what and I don't know why,
But we seemed to grow up in a flash of time,
While we watched our ideals helplessly unwind.

No - we're no longer as thick as thieves - no,
We're not as thick as we used to be - no,
We're no longer as thick as thieves - no,
We're not as thick as we used to be -

no it wasn't enough - and we've gone and spoiled everything
Now we're no longer as thick as thieves.

I don't know about you folks, but I get a great feeling after reading/posting on this thread. It's very therapeutic.

 

Fixed.

I agree completely. It's very cathartic. And reading other people's stories is like having an open window into their souls. It really helps to understand others.

I read your story, and I've got to say I can relate. I'm fortunate that I have friends with whom I'm really close, though the longest friendship I have is roughly 10 years. Many times, I wish we didn't run into that cycle of losing touch and reconnecting. You have to approach friendship with the dedication of a full-time job, and the enthusiasm of opening a new gift.

 

Another friendship tale here...

In college I met this rebel, punk-rock chick named Kate. She was a very kind, passionate soul who liked a lot of the same music I did. She lived perhaps 30 miles from where I did, so our encounters in person were few and far between. But we became very close by talking on the phone nearly every day.

Despite being the coolest girl I've ever known she had problems. As in drug problems. Her main issue was weed. She always smoked. Always. While I have no problem with weed, her use zapped her of many of the attributes I liked about her. But turns out that wasn't the big issue.

Cocaine was the issue. It got so bad, she wouldn't see me and she refused to tell me where she lived (she moved around a lot). Then her phone got cut off. Then she didn't answer e-mails.

I was real upset by this because we had tried to have a relationship before she disappeared. The drugs (and her lifestyle) got in the way of that, but we still remained very close.

A few months after she fell off the face of the earth, I got a letter in the mail telling me she's in Florida. Her parents, who lived there, came and got her after she fell into a drug-induced hell. In the letter she told me she was now clean and very happy. She said I was perhaps the one true friend she had through all of this.

So we continued to write each other (as in through the old-fashioned mail) for several months. It was clear our lives were sort of going in different directions, so the writing sort of fizzled out. I don't think, however, there was a day that went by where I didn't think about her.

So this brings us to the song...it's 2004 - roughly three years since I last talked to her - and I'm listening to Green Day's American Idiot album while driving down the highway. The last track on the album "Whatshername" comes on and I'm immediately reminded of her. But it's not just the song by itself which brings me to tears...it's the song in its relationship to the whole concept of the album....The concept of growing older and watching friends drift away.

But the postscript to this story is not a sad one. On a whim this past summer I punched in her name in myspace and her profile came up. I sent her a message. I wondered if I was a fool for contacting her because it had been seven years since we last spoke.

Well we reconnected. She's still clean, has a 2-year-old son and is now a teacher.

It's funny because obviously our situations have changed dramatically since the last time we met, but it was as if nothing changed at all. We're still very much on the same page and I think the friendship is as brilliant as ever.

 

That's really cool, dude. And a great, great song, too.

 

Otis Redding. (Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay.

Not nearly as good as some of the stories shared so far, but still a glorious memory: For the past few weeks, I'd been fooling around with this girl I worked with at the student paper in college. Stayed at her place the night before my 21st birthday, which happened to fall on a Super Bowl Sunday. We wake up fairly early, start fooling around, she goes down on me, and for no reason at all, that song pops in my head. I have my head propped up on a few pillows, seeing the 8 a.m. sunlight peak through the window on the left, getting head to start my 21st birthday.

That song will always be associated with early-morning, 21st-birthday head.

 

I miss birthday head. Happy birthday and a hearty "good going" for you, sir.

 

I know there is someone out there who has been reading this thread for a week now and is just dying to share a story. Maybe it's a short one, maybe it's just a funny one, and in their head it doesn't measure up with heart attacks, sexual self discovery, birthday bjs, wedding songs or lost friendships, but it's still worthy of being a part of this thread.

So give it a try. We'll be happy to listen.


Meanwhile, I'll be listening to Sullivan Street by the Counting Crows and thinking about how I lost my virginity.

 

*Gently nudging this thread back to the front*

 

OK round two for me...

I have many songs with personal moments attached to them, but all of those moments came via a recorded song. That is except one.

It's June 13, 2004. A day before, I had witnessed one of the last gigs of No Doubt at some shitty outdoor venue where my car got stuck in the mud afterwards. I really wasn't in the mood for a rock concert two nights straight, but I had bought tickets to what was a quasi-MC5 reunion gig about a month ago.

I was a fan of the MC5 ever since I was introduced to them in high school. Granted I wasn't even born when they broke up in 1972, but there was something about their Midwest roots which spoke deeper to me than the other classic "punk" rock out there.

The gig was at a place called the Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland. Nice little venue and I believe the place was sold out. The band was not calling themselves the MC5 however. Since guitar player Fred "Sonic" Smith and singer Rob Tyner died in the early '90s, it was a lineup of Wayne Kramer, Dennis Thompson and Michael Davis along with special guests Mark Arm of Mudhoney and Evan Dando of the Lemonheads.

Having seen Wayne Kramer solo gigs before, the energy and pace of the show did not surprise me. It was old school Detroit free-wheeling rock which put every one on the dance floor in a very good mood. It was not a nostalgia trip for the sake of it, it was genuine. It was from the heart.

Well after unloading just about everything out of the three-album catalog, the band reaches the end of the show and Brother Wayne starts talking about a song he wrote nearly 40 years ago. This old veteran of the 1960s protests against the Vietnam war brings up the situation in Iraq. He says he regrets that this song is still relevant and launches into

The song itself is peppered with specific references to the Vietnam war. On the surface, it has little to do with what's going on there in 2004, but since this is just a few months out from the cluster fuck that was Fallujah, it starts to click into place.

By the time it reaches the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" portion of the solo, the crowd is whipped up into a frenzy. Then the final lyrics are delivered and although I've never been there I swear I've been transported back to 1968.

I did indeed take a look around and so was everyone else. I made plenty of eye contact during that moment. I saw the joy associated with rock 'n' roll release, but I saw indifference. The song was probably a beacon of hope in early 70s, but now it's cynical. Nobody was working to get rid of the blues. We just except it.

But, of course, I walked out of there with a huge smile on face and a burning desire to change the world. That's what great rock 'n' roll does and every time I play that song, I'm reminded of the ability of music to inspire a sense of what it means to be free.

 

Unlike many of the people I've seen post on here, I didn't go through the rigors of four years of J-school. I didn't get a master's degree in it, though I might if I want to teach. However, I spent many a night at my local community college working on the school newspaper. It's really where I learned much of what makes me tick as a journalist now.

I've been through what I call three "eras" at that student newspaper. There was the first era in 1991-92 when I was an 18-year-old college freshman with dreams of bylines writing about my favorite NFL team and visions of syndication dancing in my all-too-naive head. There I was, with very little experience even in high school, being thrust into a role as an assistant editor. At most shops, that's nothing. At this paper, that was the number two position. Even though I was one of two people sharing this responsibility, it was perhaps not the ideal situation for someone with such scant experience.

The next semester, I was sports editor. I had very little to no experience writing gamers, and I had to deal with an advisor yelling the basics at me and forcing me to call the basketball coach two, three, four times until I got what I needed for the story. One of my friends expressed disbelief that someone who didn't know how to explain a basic defense in basketball was doing basketball gamers. It was the effect of a casual fan covering a game instead of a fanatic. I still had to learn. Finally, baseball season hit. Probably because I was more of a fanatic, my first baseball gamer came much more easily. Hearing the same advisor who could curdle years-old paint on the newsroom wall praise my grasp of baseball lingo was a breath of fresh air.

Era two began in earnest in spring 1993 when I returned to an active role after two changes in editor in chief. The advertising manager became editor for two semesters, during which she refused to listen when the entire staff warned her that she spelled Jesse Jackson's first name wrong. There in a blazing headline for all the college to see was a headline that began with "Jessie Jackson." I called the Rainbow Coalition (its name at the time) and told her to run a correction. Thankfully, she did. The new editor was very different. He was laid back, almost to a fault. He only yelled once, and he didn't even like doing that. He was a workaholic. Somehow, he and I developed a friendship after we'd only been casual accquaintances during the previous semester. An example of where that evolved happened when his fiance visited the newsroom and seemingly asked me half the questions she asked of the entire staff. It literally seemed like, "Jody?" "Forever_town?" "Frank?" "Forever_town"?

During this time, the new advertising manager, a Duran Duran fanatic, latched onto a song that seemed to be the group's comeback single. I'd sort of liked one of their big '80s hits, but wasn't a huge fan by any stretch. However, I latched on as well. Even the editor liked it. Before long, Ordinary World became, at least in my mind, the song for our newspaper staff. One thing about the early responsibility I had: It gave me a too-big-for-my-britches attitude that I would have to have knocked out of me. Ultimately, a meltdown led to that moment. The advisor kicked me off the staff. At the time, it was a crushing blow. In retrospect, it was a life lesson I sorely needed. I needed to learn that I wasn't the be-all and end-all of the staff. I had to be part of a team. I still had a lot to learn about the profession. Making improvements didn't signify anything other than I was learning.

I stayed away from the paper for a full year. I refused to return to the staff when I lost out to a staffer I felt I was better than. When she dangled sports editor instead of assistant editor in front of me, it felt like a slap in the face. I said no. I ditched the paper, swearing that I would never go back. I even spent one semester as president of student government, but with a different advisor calling the shots, I picked up covering the baseball team since the players complained about the gamers the other guy wrote. Still, it was a different story for me since I was just doing baseball. It wasn't Era three.

Era three started unexpectedly when a seemingly out there columnist from the previous year became editor. It was also unexpected since the same advisor who'd kicked me out over a year prior was back in the saddle. While some things stayed the same, one thing was different. Me. I came in determined simply to have my career on the student newspaper end positively. I had no designs on being an effin' stud. I wanted to simply go in and do what I was asked, and hopefully get better. I would look over the advisor's shoulder, not worrying if she would wreck the word choice I wanted, but genuinely wanting to learn from the changes. She complimented my journalistic instincts from the very outset of that year.

After my first story, the editor assigned me to cover what would be our paper's big story that semester: Question H. It presented some challenges because some of the people I was interviewing would say, "you were there," in my capacity as student government president. I still had a story to do, and that's what I told them. He also told me "look, it's obvious you know what you're doing," before telling me that I was the exception to his policy that a newspaper officer had to be in the office or it would be closed. If none of the other officers were there and I was, I could stay.

By the end of that semester, I found out that I'd once again become assistant editor of the newspaper by seeing it on the masthead. The editor decided to promote me without telling me. I made light of the decision, but not of the responsibility. I also decided it would not keep me from wanting to learn and get better. Before long, I'd have a chance to show how much I'd learned. A few weeks into the semester, a group of work study students came to the office with a letter complaining about extortion from the director of financial aid. I could almost read the editor's mind: "I'll assign this to someone." However, one of the students came in with a letter addressed specifically to me. When he saw that, he immediately assigned me to the task. Since one of our staff writers was intimately familiar with the financial aid office, I asked her to help. She agreed, then we both went to the financial aid office to conduct interviews. It didn't take long before we had the story that became the biggest in our newspaper. After the advisor went through it and made some edits, we were ready.

When the paper itself hit the stands, the advisor walked in, beaming. "Great job, forever_town. We work well together." That line brought to mind a Rolling Stones song from that era: Love Is Strong. "We make a beautiful team." In a sense, we all did. When the semester ended, I had what I wanted, the positive ending to my tenure on the staff. I also had a chance to write a goodbye column, which the editor ran in his customary space. He even had another staff writer write a story on my impending departure from the newspaper. We figured we wanted to do something fun, and I obliged, giving the paper a photo of me wearing a bird suit from earlier in the year.

Even though the years have pushed many of the good, bad and in between memories into the depths, the two songs still bring the memories to the fore. They help me realize how far I've come since the beginnings and how far I still have to go, and how far I probably will still have to go even on the day I retire. I also think about how much the three editors I worked the most closely with influence me even now. From the first editor, I learned something about finding talent and giving people an opportunity. From the second editor, I learned about work ethic and I learned that you didn't have to be a screamer to get the job done. From the third editor, I learned something about going to bat for your staff. I hope I've been able to apply all the lessons I've learned since then. I know I can always get better about it.