Feeling the Music

I have no musical talent of my own (just ask anyone who’s ever heard me sing), yet I’ve always felt that my life has its own soundtrack.  Almost all of my clearest and most heartfelt memories are connected with music in some way.

The Beatles, John Lennon, Elvis, Barbra Streisand…they’re all my mother.  I hear Barbra’s version of “The Lord’s Prayer”, Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, or The Beatles’ “Let It Be”, and I’m back in my childhood bedroom, tucked under the covers with my nightlight on and Mom singing me to sleep.  I hear Ringo singing “Octopus’s Garden”, and Mom and I are cleaning the house on a Saturday, and I’m running around in circles in our living room, listening to the album on our huge 1970’s console stereo and laughing at the bubble sounds in the background.  I hear “Give Peace a Chance” and I’m playing hide-and-seek, huddled among the clothes hanging up in Mom’s bedroom closet, staring at the poster of John that she’d tacked up on the wall as if she was embarrassed about wanting to hang it up in the first place.   I hear “Imagine”, and I see Mom crying over the news that he’d been shot, or the poem I wrote that mentioned the song, that I slipped into the casket at her funeral when I was 15.  (And apparently it doesn’t have to be John Lennon singing it; I bawled like a baby listening to Lady Gaga’s cover.)

The Charlie Daniels Band, Jesus Christ Superstar, and Journey…that’s my dad.  I hear “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”, and I’m a little girl listening to an 8-track in his car and giggling at the “son of a bitch” verse, or getting mad when the radio played the “son of a gun” version instead because that was the WRONG WORDS!  (Yes, I’ve really hated censorship in music since before I was allowed to say cuss words myself.)  I hear anything at all from the JCS soundtrack, and I remember the first time I ever saw Dad cry because it reminded him of his own dad, who died before I was born.  I hear "Don't Stop Believin'", and I see a much smaller Mini Monster bouncing with excitement in her booster seat, yelling, "The Loud Song!" because Pop-pop always turns up the volume when it comes on, and she doesn't know the real title.

These are all music memories that I feel in my heart—sometimes as a certain warmth, sometimes a dull ache.  But in spite of the fact that I’ve now rambled on for ages about my emotional attachment to certain songs, that’s not really why I’m writing this post.  What I want to talk about here is a little different—I want to talk about the way you can sometimes feel a song, even without a specific memory connected to it.

For instance…

There’s something about the thumping beat in “Teeth” that I can literally feel in my gut, and I. Freaking. Love. It.  I have to crank it up as loud as possible, every time.  We have a Bluetooth speaker in our upstairs bathroom that I use to listen to music while I’m in the shower or getting ready for work, and it bounces across the counter, pulls away from the charger cord if it’s still plugged in, and lands inside the sink when I play that song.  I think I bruised my right palm today, pounding on the steering wheel to that beat.  I raise my hand (hands, plural, if I’m not driving) singing along with “Help, need a man, now show me your fangs…” like it’s some kind of praise song in church.  And hell yes, I bare my teeth.  I probably look like a rabid animal whenever I do it, but I can’t resist the compulsion.

And then there’s the intro to “John Wayne”.  It’s like Gaga is reaching over with her 10-inch platform boots, pressing my foot down on the gas pedal when she screams, “And can you go a little FASTER?!”  I wonder if she’ll pay the speeding ticket I’m gonna get one of these days because of that song.

Or the opening line of “Heavy Metal Lover”…and ALL of “Dancing in Circles”.  I can’t even go there right now.  Is it warm in here, or is it just my imagination?  Can somebody turn on the AC?  Please?

Some songs, I can’t even listen to if I don’t have a tissue handy, because they squeeze my heart and make my eyes leak.  (I’m looking at you, “I’ll Never Love Again”…)

“When I’m on a mission, I rebuke my condition. If you’re a strong female, you don’t need permission”

“I’m a warrior queen, live passionately tonight”

"Whenever I start feeling strong, I’m called a bitch in the night. But I don’t need these 14 karat guns to win, I am a woman, I insist, it’s my life”

“I can be the queen that’s inside of me, This is my chance to release and be brave for you, you’ll see”

—These lines are to me what “I am Woman, hear me roar” was to my mother.  I can feel my deeply buried inner badass standing up a little straighter and coming a little closer to the surface every time she sings these words.  I can’t help but believe that I wouldn’t even be writing this blog right now, fully intending to publish my thoughts for anyone to read who clicks on my link in the fan group or stumbles upon them unintentionally—is that even possible?—if not for these songs.  It’s like I can practically feel her taking my hand and giving it a squeeze to tell me, “You can do this.  You’ve got this.”  Maybe someday, I’ll learn to focus that encouraging energy on finishing one of the many stories I’ve begun to write but can’t seem to complete.  (If that ever happens, I can promise she’ll get full credit in the dedication.)

There are more examples, of course, but they'd take the mood of my post in an entirely different direction, and that's not what I'm looking for this time.  I'll save them for later.

Can you feel it, too?  I’d love for you to tell me.

Love and Paws Up always, Little Monsters.