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

This isn't a story.

This is a Saturday sketch, an exercise. This is a couple of sheets knotted together and dropped from memory's window so that I can scramble down out of myself for a while. Or climb back in.

I have those stories of course, of mid-70s nights in the back of a '62 Belvedere - chalk white with the pushbutton automatic and the worn beige interior, bench seats front and rear the size of bunks smelling only faintly of wet rust and mildewed foam, $300 and the cost of a new head gasket for the illusion of freedom - with Daltry or Hendrix or Joplin ringing in my ears, and hers, my suburban American birthright to conjure a clod's passion from darkness, to steam that safety glass with my inept wanting, to wrestle God and appetite and the catechism with girls I'd known all my life.

But this isn't a story. And it was earlier.

This is '68 or '69 and by that time I was 12 and all my heroes had been taken from me, shot in the head as the floor dropped away from us all. It was bad then between my parents too, the beginning of the end of the end for the three of us, and there was a silence in that house that hung like an accusation, that hung there like smoke from an old arson, and inbound or outbound whatever you said or thought or felt got sucked into that silence and suffocated there.

So I saved and saved my money - indifferent lawn mower, diffident raker of leaves, sloppy painter of fences, irresponsible sitter of babies and dogs and plants - to tunnel my way out of that silence.

I bought a Sony all-in-one stereo, two big speakers and a turntable with a receiver in the base, particle board veneered in walnut with an AM/FM dial on the front that glowed bright green like a summer moon on northern water.

And what I listened to was jazz.

And by "listened" I mean breathed. And by "listened" I mean all day and night, waking and sleeping, radio or records. And by "listened" I mean never turned off except to change the needles I wore flat with my sadness. And by "listened" I mean defined and defended myself.

From Beiderbecke to bop to Brubeck. Didn't matter. Every note from every age was an incantation, a fetish, a weapon against despair.

But first and last among that magic was the 1961 recording of John Coltrane playing "My Favorite Things."

There is no describing it.

But when at last that silence turned to rage, and my parents fought, month upon month upon month, I would invoke Coltrane, drop the needle, set those two speakers a foot apart on the floor of my bedroom and lay my head between them and stare up through the dark, through the ceiling and into the sky and feel myself dissolve into something celestial and untouchable.

I haven't been able to listen to it since.

And in every quiet moment, I hear it still.

 

Well, I'm not sure I can follow jgmacg's (sweet lord, man)...but here goes.

"At Your Best (You Are Love)" by Aaliyah. It was the summer of 1994, and this little teen had just released her debut album. She covered this song, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. I'd just graduated high school and was participating in Upward Bound, a program for HS students and recently-graduated students. It was the summer I started my first real serious relationship with my first love. That song will always remind me of long summer nights in the basement of the Blanding dorm at Kentucky, playing pool, watching TV, sneaking kisses, etc. Years later, long after we had split for the final time, he told me the same.

"Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey. The aforementioned love was not smooth. We dated off and on for about three and a half years, but it was never longer than eight months on or off at a time. This song was it for me, this was us. Now, he's one of my best friends.

 

The first music I ever remember hearing as a child was a song called "Eve of Destruction."

I was just a tyke, sitting in the back of my mom's well-used black-and-white 1955 Oldsmobile, when the song came on the AM radio. I listened to the lyrics, which as a kid growing up in the Deep South, immediately struck a profoundly resonant chord with me about politics, race and class privilege. It was as if my political consciousness was born at that very instant.

The song gave me a "wow, just wow" moment long before I ever knew what "wow, just wow" meant.

A couple of decades later, Mrs. Lono and I tied the knot and as we climbed into our convertible to leave the wedding reception, she turned on the radio and "Eve of Destruction" was playing. She was sitting there in her wedding dress and Ray-Bans, looking beautiful and radiant as only a newly-minted bride can. And then she smiled.

"'Eve of Destruction.' That's a good omen," was all she said. Oddly, I knew what she meant and concurred.

As it turns out, she was prophetic. It was a good omen. And here we are.

The other song that remains as significant is "No Surrender" by Bruce Springsteen.

Mrs. Lono and I spent one glorious hot summer day on a boat with her best friend's family.

We left around sunset and began heading home, a two-hour drive down deserted country roads with the top down on the convertible, a full moon shining and the lush and intoxicating sounds and smells that only a heat-thick Southern night can produce. Driving down the road in the open air was a virtual contact high.

We were cruising deep into the night when "No Surrender" came on. Spontaneously, the three of us began holding hands. And no, there was no three-way to follow, so get your minds out of the gutter.

But it was a moment of intense emotional intimacy, a promise that we would all stay true to each other, no matter what. No retreat, baby, no surrender.

That was two decades ago.

Once you hit adulthood, over the next two decades you pretty much go through it all: Marriages, divorces, births, deaths, moments of great joy and unspeakable sorrow. And the people who were with you at the beginning, hang with you through the journey and are still with you 20 years later are the ones who matter most.

Maybe the three of us knew something back then. Mrs. Lono and I are still together and our best friend then is still our best friend now.

 

I'm gunning for the longest post in SJ history ;D

It was a sticky summer night on July 26, 2005. I found myself watching the Sox while downing a few cans of Mountain Dew and eating a couple of slices from Papa Ginos. It was a summer routine in these parts; usually I was around buddies with the AC cranked while watching the Sox religiously at 7 pm, but on this Tuesday night I was with my grizzly aging dad, a guy who spent his younger days hawking peanuts at Fenway and closely following New England legends like Jim Rice and Luis Tiant.

As we were watching the meaningless game against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, Sox starter Matt Clement took a sickening line drive to the head from Carl Crawford. My dad and I were horrified. I jumped online to a baseball message board to check some reactions on what had just transpired. There was an obnoxious Yankees fan on the thread, talking trash and saying Clement's injury did not matter because the Yankees were going to win the World Series that year, blah, blah, blah. I did not pay any mind to it, until she PM'ed me and started talking about how the Yanks were going to make a huge deal to solidify their talented team that would carry them to a championship. We began arguing back and forth, with me of course throwing in the numbers "2004" as much as possible.

Anyway, one thing led to another, and we began talking on AIM the next day. I found out she was the same age as me, less than a month older, and also going to be a senior in high school. She lived about 2 1/2 hours away in southern CT; I lived in southern NH. We began to hit it off very quickly and found that we had tons in common...besides the whole baseball thing (of course, her entire family were Yankees fans and my whole family adored the Red Sox). So she gave me her phone number and we began texting each other constantly -- while at work, when we were out, whenever we couldn't talk online.

Finally, I built up the nerve to call her. I was a late bloomer, terribly awkward around chicks in high school, never knowing exactly what to say when the moment presented itself. At this time of my life, I was 17 years old and had still never had a serious girlfriend. Although I was typically shy and nervous around girls, I found this one to be refreshingly easy to talk too. We stayed on the phone for 3 or 4 hours that first time, until her cell phone battery died. We continued to talk for the next several weeks almost every night, spilling our hearts or just laughing or discussing random subjects. She had become my best friend. I would stay in at nights just to talk to this girl who I had never met, ditched my friends on occasion because I'd rather hear her soft voice.

One of those humid summer nights, she heard the song "Follow Through" by Gavin DeGraw on the radio and told me it was officially our song. I listened to the lyrics and decided they were absolutely perfect. We were quickly falling for each other, had sent pictures online and were equally attracted. Finally, we both began school and we feared we would fall out of contact. However, we found each other texting almost every class and our relationship had not suffered at all. After homework and dinner, we'd still talk for a few hours. Out of the blue one day, I asked if she would be my girlfriend and she said yes. I was the happiest guy in the world, but was still yearning to see this mystery girl who I had fallen in love with. I went to the mall one day and made her a plush, talking Build-a-Bear, mailing it to her house, which was met with a phone call where she was so appreciative and surprised that she became choked up while talking.

Anyway, fast forward to the last day of September 2005 and her uncle let her borrow his car for a week as he was away on a business trip. She told her family she was going to her friends house for the weekend and made the trek up to NH. I was absolutely terrified -- I bought her expensive flowers, but we were meeting at a gas station right off the highway and I sat in my car sweating and shaking in my finest clothes, scared to death that this wouldn't go well and we'd be over before we really even began.

She pulled into the gas station and I got out of my car, opened her door and handed her the flowers. I saw one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen, with flowing blond hair, a beautiful tanned body, and a warm and welcoming smile. I was ecstatic and we sat in the parking lot, holding and hugging each other for 10 minutes or so, before I told her to follow me back to my place.

Of course on that night, the Sox/Yankees were on and my house was certainly tuned on to that. I introduced her to my family, who had been yearning to meet here after hearing so much. I brought her suitcase into my room, and she followed. She shut the door and planted the biggest and best kiss I have ever received on my lips and we passionately kissed for what seemed like hours. We then went on our first date, to a movie theater to see the 40-Year Old Virgin. She snuggled up against my chest throughout the flick as we both cracked up, completely content and incredibly happy.

That night, she put in the Gavin DeGraw CD and we listened to "Follow Through" on repeat until we fell asleep in each other's arms. It was like a storybook romance, I thought. Perhaps completely insane, moving way too fast, coming out of nowhere, but the most happy I had ever been was that night. We awoke in the middle of the night to fool around a little bit, but did not have sex until after a Homecoming dance I went to with her nearly 2 months later.

Anyway, she left to go home and I cried like a baby, honest to god. I had found love and just as soon as I did, she was driving down I-93 S, away from me. Although we talked so often, I missed her touch, her presence, and craved for her to be around all of the time. The next weekend, she came back and we had another fantastic weekend, going to a local fair and I won her a giant plush panda bear at one of those cheap, crooked carnie games. As she departed home, I could not stop listening to "Follow Through", feeling a complex combination of deep sadness and life changing giddiness.

I went to her home the next weekend for the first time, and I met her family, a collection of odd, stuffy Catholics that I grew fond of quickly. Soon, we were seeing each other every other weekend on a consistant basis. Neither of us had running cars at the time, so often our families would meet at a logical halfway point -- the DCU Center in Worcester.

Over the next few months were some of the best times of my life. I purchased front row tickets to see Monsters Inc. on ice, we went to the Mystic Aquarium, she spent New Years at my house, I spent Easter at her house, we went to the Prom, we went to Semi-Formal, we went to a game at both Fenway and Yankee Stadium, we went to a Goo Goo Dolls concert, we went to UConn basketball games, we had picnics on the field, we went skiing and tubing up at Pats Peak in NH, we went on day hikes on trails near her house, we spent countless hours on the gorgeous Connecticut shoreline. But our best times were late at night when we would just be close to each other, holding one another and showing our love and appreciation. And every time we'd depart, I'd honestly cry my eyes out like a complete baby for 5 minutes or so and listen to "Follow Through" and another song, the Piano Coda at the end of "Layla" which I find to be an extremely beautiful and moving piece of music.

Anyway, we both attended one another's graduation from high school and chose to attend the same college in CT. When we arrived at college, the temptations around us got to her. She was a heavy drinker and partyer early on in high school, before growing out of it when her grades plummeted and she was sexually taken advantage of. Apparently she was ready to try the scene again and began doing heavy amounts of drinking and cocaine while partying non-stop. I urged her to get help and she wouldn't, set in her ways and becoming increasingly difficult and unpleasant to deal with. We soon fizzled and I reluctantly turned back to NH in December '06 after a semester, but not before informing her family on her condition and asking them to get her help. I have not talked to her since January of '07, but plan on making a call one of these days just to check on her and see how she's doing now. Although perhaps we didn't completely follow through, I would not trade the experience for the world. It has helped me tremendously on the dating scene and given me new confidence as well as one of those yearlong romances that some people would kill for once in their life. I still listen to "Follow Through", smile, and think of the unforgettable times with this young woman.

 

There never has been a better thread on this site.
Ever.
And bb, I would have bet yours would've been Willie (Boom Boom) Alexander's "Mass. Ave."

 

It was 1979, a couple months after getting dumped by the girlfriend. I was driving to work with the radio on. Radio station had people at the Eagles concert and they were grabbing people leaving the show. They ask this one young woman which song she liked best. It was her. She said, "The new one, I Can't Tell You Why." I knew she likely didn't go to the show by herself. For years I couldn't hear the song without thinking of her. And thinking that it's a sad song about a couple, and while I still wasn't over her, for her it was the high point of the afternoon's entertainment as she sat there with someone else. We got back together 10 years later and then very briefly a few years after that, and new, non-musical triggers superceded the old one. And then a month after the last split in early 1994, I met my wife. I saw about a year ago that the old GF finally got married, at age 46. And I didn't feel bad.

 

Listening to my iTunes on Shuffle brought this song up and back into mind:

Beautiful Child by Fleetwood Mac

I guess I've always gravitated more toward the rockers in Stevie Nicks's catalog. I usually get more into the songs that are crank-up-to-11-and-watch-her-blow-the-speakers intensity. However, this song isn't like that. Thus, it usually became the unfortunate victim of an itchy skip finger.

However, I flash back to one winter night in 1999 or 2000 when my grandmother was calling the house for like the third time that night. This time, she wanted to talk to me and she wanted to tell me she'd read a story that would soon dominate the headlines of my life. The president of my university's student government and her grandfather were killed in an auto accident due to icy conditions near his home.

That revelation would soon hang over the entire university as a dark cloud of grief. But on that night, I remembered the good things: Her ability to see all sides of an issue, her early sense of professionalism that showed when she told me why she picked someone else to serve as an SGA legislator and other reasons that told me she wasn't just padding her resume with the presidency. Even though I didn't know her very long, the news of her death hit me hard. She was only 20. At the time, I was in my mid-20s.

I was only vaguely aware of this song, but it was the first place I turned to try to help me through the feelings of profound sadness and grief I was feeling. Then, just a few years later, Fleetwood Mac decided to perform this song on their Say You Will tour. At the second Washington, D.C. show, I'd lucked into floor seats that were one section behind the front, right in front of Stevie Nicks's microphone. When this song began, most of the people on the floor sat down. I stood up, solely as a subtle message to the band that I knew this song. It must have gotten through: As she was singing the early line "I bite my lip, can you send me away," she pointed directly at me. At that moment, I could have died and gone to Heaven -- at least after she finished "Stand Back."

Ever since, "Beautiful Child" became the song I would turn to whenever someone younger than I, someone who had his or her whole life in front of him, someone who had a deep impact on my life, was taken from this world far too soon.

*Edited to add* I just put this song on repeat.

 

That's a really outstanding post, bostonbred.

 

Great post buckweaver: I really felt like I could imagine the scene in the car.

"And I can still hear you saying you would never break, never break the chain."

 

Agreed. Fantastic thread idea and I've really enjoyed reading the posts...music often brings out the best stories.

Oddly, one of my first memories was as a 4 or 5 year old kid. My first pet, a hermit crab, had just died and I was torn apart with confusion and sadness. My dad's grandmother, by all accounts a very sweet lady who suffered for years from a brutal case of cancer, passed away the same week. One night shortly after the funeral, me and my dad went out for Chinese. On the ride home, Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" came on the radio and my dad began silently weeping. I had never seen him cry before, so it was quite shocking and I remember doing the same thing. We both sobbed during the 15-minute ride home and then (what else?) I sat next to him as we watched a Sox game together on our ancient TV.

 

Early May, 1975

Driving west on Patterson Avenue between Three Chopt and Parham Road about 2:30 in the AM in a friend's cherry red Ford Galaxie 500 convertable, after dropping off my date from that night back at school after an end-of-the-year party at the townhouse apartment I shared with three fraternity brothers. (Hey, Cindy C!)

It's a beautiful, starry, balmy night, about 70 degrees, I've got a little buzz on, smoking a Marlboro Red from the hard box, and "Don't Let the Sun Catch You Cryin' by Gerry and the Pacemakers comes on the radio.

I loved that song as a kid experiencing the English Invasion via my transistor radio, Ed Sullivan and Dave Clark/Beatles/Yardbirds/etc. albums. Now it's on the radio on one of the best nights of my life, to that point.

I've had a very fortunate life. But whenever I hear that song, I think of that night, when I was on top of the world, when great things seemed possible, and everything good seemed there for the taking.

 

Wow bostonbred, I just read your long story. Fantastic story.