An ode to music

A lyrical essay on the magic of music; my long lasting love.

I was supposed to write all Friday but my early birthday present arrived, and I spent most of the day lost in the auditory world of my very new, now very sacred, Marshall speaker. I sat on the floor listening to song after song, to hear how it sounds. I played I’d Rather Go Blind by Koko Taylor and cried. I played rock and danced. I played and played and played until the entire day escaped me. I had written nothing but I had felt everything. I had fallen in love with a speaker. I had re-discovered a bright zest in me. And I had come to understand music’s irreplaceable place in my life. 

One of the things I love about my mother is her unwavering love for music. Music was always a part of my childhood. The age old, very worn in story of the absent alcoholic father meant that for my formative years – it was just her and I. And most of my memories are soundtracked by her extensive CD collection. Right next to her stereo, I remember her oversized speakers and silver amps with so many knobs I couldn’t imagine what they were all for. She’d always bring home new CD’s. Or hide them in the car glove box as presents. At home, we’d wait for the whir of the tray to come out. For the slim disco disc to slide back in. And then she’d blast it. As loud as her speakers could go. Never caring about neighbours or should’s or what night of the week it was. A rebel for the music. And the biggest influence on my undying, red, adoring love for music. 

At 5 years old, I became obsessed with The Eagles. I used to watch The Eagles Hell Freezes Over 1994 Tour VHS – on repeat. Like children watched animated films obsessively, I watched The Eagles. And I remember it all. The backstage. The streams of blue and pink light that poured across the screen. And it may have been because Don Henley reminded me of my dad, but I imagined they were all mine. Five fathers, all for me. But more than imaginary father figures, they were my first musical love. I was spellbound by the art of it. The electric guitars, the acoustic ones. The electricity. The emotion. It was a first love, and I loved that band with my whole five year old heart. 

Fast forward three years and I was taken to my very first concert. At 8 years old I stood wide-eyed in a sea of people looking at a mini Bryan Adams on a dark stage. Mesmerised by the bigness of it all. Tiny and smiling. Bopping along to Summer of 69.  His MTV Unplugged album inspired my very originally titled dolphins album – Dolphins Unplugged. Alongside my cousin, I smashed on old upside oil drums and scribbled lyrics exclusively about dolphins on pieces of paper. We played down the side of our grandmother’s small town takeaway shop. The sound of two eight year olds singing at the top of their lungs about the magic of dolphins echoing throughout the entire shop. Like a rock and roll band we played hard and fast (with copious amounts of candy instead of cocaine) and broke up 3 days later. 

In my early teens, my mother asked what I’d like for my 14th birthday and I told her all I wanted was the Beach Boys album. She laughed and asked is that all and I was adamant – I wanted that album. Unwrapping the sunset cover of their Sounds of Summer album filled me with such a thrill I think I strained my face from delight. I played that CD hard. When my friends came over to invite me to the pool in the high heat of some 2000’s summer, I hid beneath my window until they left. And when I was certain they were gone – returned to jumping on my bed with a hot pink hairbrush singing Come Go With Me like a Beach Boys groupie from the 60’s. Braces and passion and all. 

At fifteen, I fell in love with Fleetwood Mac and searched high and low for a 70’s disco mix CD I couldn’t get enough of at six. And then sixteen came, and so did the painful intensity of existence. I branched out from the artists of my mother’s youth, forging my own musical path – straight into angst. All of a sudden I was laying on the floor breaking my heart over some gangly boy at school, Ron Pope crooning from tangled headphones. Gone were the days of citrus Beach Boys and magenta groove. In its place was pain. Screaming I just want you to know who I am with The Goo Goo Dolls in my room. Shortly after, I got my hands on pop punk, rock, and anything reeking of teenage unease. Asking mop haired boys under starry skies if they liked Yellowcard. The change between childhood and teenage-hood was jarring and distinct. The music I loved reflected that. 

Since then, I’ve loved and moved through various genres. My tastes changing and transforming as I discovered new facets of myself. Music can bring me to tears almost as fast as heartache. Can undo and stitch me up with surgical precision. Can hijack my veins with electricity. And because it’s been deeply laced in my daily life for so many years, I’ve found it hard to see just how much of my space and story it takes up. How much this art form has curled itself around my heart like thorny rose vines and never let go. 

School was easier if I could pull out my iPod in class. I performed better at old office jobs if I could plug in my headphones. Insomnia feels less lonely in the company of music. Driving without music is a kind of hell. And as a writer, music is always playing when I work. I like it loud; and if the bass reverberates up the legs of my desk, perfect. I’ve told love stories to boys in cars with songs. Leant on albums through the grief of heartbreak. Sung songs out of car windows. Preserved memories within songs; playing the memories whenever I play the songs. And the gifts I remember are always music related. Kissing at a music festival. A mix CD scribbled with thick black pen. Tickets for a small velvet live show. This black box of joy on my floor. 

Music is a love affair I keep coming back to. A love I couldn’t escape if I tried. A love I’ve cried for. Gotten on the floor for. Found myself in. Recognised myself in. And found company in when this world has felt desolate. Music has given me so much: love and recognition and solace. It’s been an heirloom handed down from my mother. It’s said things I couldn’t find the words to utter. And it holds onto all of my memories for me – keeping them stored safely, in pristine condition, inside hundreds of thousands of songs. For me, music has been a memory keeper, a mouthpiece, a hymn. It has been both the mother I had and the father I didn’t. It has been an inspiration and a salvation. Something to overlay the world with that makes it feel bearable. Something I love with my whole rattling chest. And sitting here on the floor, typing next to my new speaker, Koko Taylor curling into the air around me – I can’t stop smiling. And I hope, these words tell you why.