For now, let me share a slice of life from my weekend.
"Love is the temple." It was this line, yesterday, Sunday, at about 3 in the afternoon. I was playing tickle fest with my one-year-old niece in a heap on my bed. She loves to play in Aunt Lesley's room because it's the girl chill zone. When she's with me, I don't necessarily treat her like a baby. We answer emails together. We listen to Bob Marley and Joni Mitchell, and she relaxes into this tiny dancing being. She'll sit on a pillow and smile for twenty minutes, milk cup in hand, and we talk. No, she can't talk back yet. But I know she hears me. I had a quickmix Pandora station on, and very randomly Warren Haynes' "One" cycled through. Unexpectedly and beautifully, joyful tears began to well up in the corners of my eyes. Eleanor smiled at me, innocently and with no abandon, and I kind of felt like my mother was in the room with us. Years after we all lost her, there is this perfect being who has her smile, who brightens up all of our days. Eleanor is my family's chance at redemption. She might not comprehend that, of course, certainly not now if ever. But within her happiness, her joy, the beginning of her life and decisions, we are all renewed.
I grabbed her up and took her outside into the gray afternoon. I just felt that moment called for excitement and adventure. She loves to explore. For her, our backyard deck is a forest with no end, within which she is a tiny creature. I brought my phone with me and relayed Haynes' song. Somewhere in the middle of the line "we'll carry each other, carry each other away," my heart filled up and I knew it would be a day I'd always remember.
This is the way music moves me. Rob Sheffield, my favorite music critic and one of my favorite writers, says we are all made of music. Songs are how we remember each other. Songs are what survive after we die. Yesterday I finally understood what he meant. In the most random of moments, there was my mother, memorialized. And it's too late, "tonight, to drag the past out into the light." Instead, in Eleanor's eyes, is all the forgiveness we have ever needed.
In the spirit of such an amazing, uplifting moment, I am compelled to re-post my review of Rob Sheffield's book, Love is a Mixtape. This is from February of last year:
I stumbled across Rob Sheffield's Love is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time via my friend Megan, who moved back to Georgia after a stint in Brooklyn. She recommended the book to me because she knows I adore making playlists and that I often speak in lyrics (to the chagrin of many).
But a story also accompanied the recommendation. Apparently she was at a gathering in Brooklyn one night and ended up in a booth with Sheffield--a writer for Rolling Stone and a frequent commentator on MTV and VH1; they had some mutual friends, but she didn't know who the hell he was until he escaped to the bar and she had a minute to inquire. Megan said she was floored by Sheffield's good humor, kindness, and unassuming nature even when those around him lauded his work, made a big deal of him. A skinny, nerdy writer in Brooklyn sipping whiskey in a hole-in-the-wall bar on a Saturday night. But there's so much more going on there, and he's no cliche.
Sheffield's book is organized into short chapters, and each one opens with a playlist--collections of songs, some very random, that date from the early nineties, when he met his wife Renee, to the early two-thousands, after he'd lost her. It's a memoir more than anything, a first-person narrative that uses his stream-of-consciousness and thousands of musical and pop culture references to place us in the center of his twenties. This is a book about love and music, but it's also a book about being young and confused.
I don't fear ruining the plot for anyone. Sheffield informs the reader by the tenth page that his wife died in his arms when she was 31. So for half the book, you know it's coming. This makes the joy of their meet-cute, their courtship, the comfort as they settle into a relationship in a sleepy college town all that much harder to bear. Take away the approaching grief in those first few chapters, though, and what you have also is this brilliant, expressive peek into the tunnel of Sheffield's twenties. I've got to be honest, I related to the lethargy and apathy he began to feel toward school, as he pursued a graduate degree at the University of Virginia and spent years teaching undergrads, all the while feeling painfully underappreciated. We know, because of the career he'd jump into later as a pop culture commentator, that he abandoned the ambiguity and planted himself firmly in a world he was much more passionate about. You don't have to be a graduate student or live in a college town, though, to relate to Sheffield's themes. He describes the dichotomy common among twenty-somethings (at least from what I see)--impatience, constantly at odds with a compulsion to settle into a comfortable existence that asks the world to wait a while. He and his Renee hated their jobs in Charlottesville, for example, but he describes coming to peace with that every weekend--when the sun went down on a Friday night and their cadre of friends came over to listen to grunge music, drink Zima (remember that stuff?!) mixed with Chambourd, and grill burgers.
He was also okay with his tiny apartment, shitty car, and lousy job because he shared it all with this woman who, he tells us, filled the spaces with her beauty, her music, and her exuberance. They met at a bar, bonded over a Big Star tune, and the rest is the history he relays to us. The love in this story is not a fairytale; but it is a lesson in embracing those people who take the time and care to understand you.
I could go on and on about the gloriously-worded anecdotes here. There's a four-page chapter that rolls back to Sheffield's childhood. He describes an afternoon in which his father lovingly sat with him and experimented with The Beatles' "Hey Jude," looping it on a mix tape to make one very long continuous track. A simple joy, and his love of music made clear early on. Once he reached the age his dad was when that happened, he tells us, he realized how important and how generous the moment was. Those of us lucky to have had parents like that, well we know the true meaning behind a memory like this--it gets us through tougher times as adults, recalling those days that our elders devoted to us to make us more nuanced people.
But I digress. The main point I want to make in this little review is that the very nature of Sheffield's memoir makes the argument that there should be no shame in living our lives through soundtracks. Music shuttled him through all the stages of his life--a time of isolation, a time of love, a time of loss. His love for Renee WAS a mix tape--perfect in its imperfections, better for its missteps, powerful for its authority because it always defines a moment in time. "When you put a song on a mix tape," Sheffield writes, "you set it free." The song is no longer confined to its album, or even to its artist. When you squeeze it in between other songs that mean just as much to you, evoke the same emotions, you make it your own. Or you make it for someone else. Or for an occassion. No one over the age of twenty can read this book and NOT be thrown back in time to moments defined by their pre-IPOD playlists. I got a little weepy recalling the afternoons I sat on my mother's blue couch waiting for the radio to play a certain song--probably something I'd be embarrassed to admit to now--so that I could push "Record" and save it for (at least I thought at the time) forever. A boy broke my sixteen-year-old heart once, and I fixed myself by looping several Celine Dion ballads in with some Liz Phair, who my older and wiser sister Joan had just introduced me to. When I was an undergrad in Ruston, Louisiana (a very quiet, small place at night), I used to drive around listening to a CD I made of what I thought were Joni Mitchell's greatest hits. (Most people probably wouldn't agree with me about "Dancin' Clown," by the way.)
But a story also accompanied the recommendation. Apparently she was at a gathering in Brooklyn one night and ended up in a booth with Sheffield--a writer for Rolling Stone and a frequent commentator on MTV and VH1; they had some mutual friends, but she didn't know who the hell he was until he escaped to the bar and she had a minute to inquire. Megan said she was floored by Sheffield's good humor, kindness, and unassuming nature even when those around him lauded his work, made a big deal of him. A skinny, nerdy writer in Brooklyn sipping whiskey in a hole-in-the-wall bar on a Saturday night. But there's so much more going on there, and he's no cliche.
Sheffield's book is organized into short chapters, and each one opens with a playlist--collections of songs, some very random, that date from the early nineties, when he met his wife Renee, to the early two-thousands, after he'd lost her. It's a memoir more than anything, a first-person narrative that uses his stream-of-consciousness and thousands of musical and pop culture references to place us in the center of his twenties. This is a book about love and music, but it's also a book about being young and confused.
I don't fear ruining the plot for anyone. Sheffield informs the reader by the tenth page that his wife died in his arms when she was 31. So for half the book, you know it's coming. This makes the joy of their meet-cute, their courtship, the comfort as they settle into a relationship in a sleepy college town all that much harder to bear. Take away the approaching grief in those first few chapters, though, and what you have also is this brilliant, expressive peek into the tunnel of Sheffield's twenties. I've got to be honest, I related to the lethargy and apathy he began to feel toward school, as he pursued a graduate degree at the University of Virginia and spent years teaching undergrads, all the while feeling painfully underappreciated. We know, because of the career he'd jump into later as a pop culture commentator, that he abandoned the ambiguity and planted himself firmly in a world he was much more passionate about. You don't have to be a graduate student or live in a college town, though, to relate to Sheffield's themes. He describes the dichotomy common among twenty-somethings (at least from what I see)--impatience, constantly at odds with a compulsion to settle into a comfortable existence that asks the world to wait a while. He and his Renee hated their jobs in Charlottesville, for example, but he describes coming to peace with that every weekend--when the sun went down on a Friday night and their cadre of friends came over to listen to grunge music, drink Zima (remember that stuff?!) mixed with Chambourd, and grill burgers.
He was also okay with his tiny apartment, shitty car, and lousy job because he shared it all with this woman who, he tells us, filled the spaces with her beauty, her music, and her exuberance. They met at a bar, bonded over a Big Star tune, and the rest is the history he relays to us. The love in this story is not a fairytale; but it is a lesson in embracing those people who take the time and care to understand you.
I could go on and on about the gloriously-worded anecdotes here. There's a four-page chapter that rolls back to Sheffield's childhood. He describes an afternoon in which his father lovingly sat with him and experimented with The Beatles' "Hey Jude," looping it on a mix tape to make one very long continuous track. A simple joy, and his love of music made clear early on. Once he reached the age his dad was when that happened, he tells us, he realized how important and how generous the moment was. Those of us lucky to have had parents like that, well we know the true meaning behind a memory like this--it gets us through tougher times as adults, recalling those days that our elders devoted to us to make us more nuanced people.
But I digress. The main point I want to make in this little review is that the very nature of Sheffield's memoir makes the argument that there should be no shame in living our lives through soundtracks. Music shuttled him through all the stages of his life--a time of isolation, a time of love, a time of loss. His love for Renee WAS a mix tape--perfect in its imperfections, better for its missteps, powerful for its authority because it always defines a moment in time. "When you put a song on a mix tape," Sheffield writes, "you set it free." The song is no longer confined to its album, or even to its artist. When you squeeze it in between other songs that mean just as much to you, evoke the same emotions, you make it your own. Or you make it for someone else. Or for an occassion. No one over the age of twenty can read this book and NOT be thrown back in time to moments defined by their pre-IPOD playlists. I got a little weepy recalling the afternoons I sat on my mother's blue couch waiting for the radio to play a certain song--probably something I'd be embarrassed to admit to now--so that I could push "Record" and save it for (at least I thought at the time) forever. A boy broke my sixteen-year-old heart once, and I fixed myself by looping several Celine Dion ballads in with some Liz Phair, who my older and wiser sister Joan had just introduced me to. When I was an undergrad in Ruston, Louisiana (a very quiet, small place at night), I used to drive around listening to a CD I made of what I thought were Joni Mitchell's greatest hits. (Most people probably wouldn't agree with me about "Dancin' Clown," by the way.)
Sheffield also makes some important claims for a digital era. He has absolutely no problem with the itunes-i-zation of our shared music culture; in fact, he has faith that despite a click-of-the-button music world, people will always make mix tapes. Now they're playlists emailed late at night, or a CD you pop on in someone's car on a road trip. But it's the same concept, and it's an artform (particularly when the process is as meticulous as his and Renee's was).
This is a book about rock and roll greater than any biography you'll read, or any "Behind the Music" you'll find re-playing at 1am. The point of rock and roll wasn't just rebellion or youth or even artistry. It was a lot about setting music free, and in turn, setting the people who listen to it free. That's why it has changed so much since Elvis shimmied his first shimmy. Here Sheffield describes in detail the evolution of underground grunge rock, a phenomenon that climaxed when Kurt Cobain became a pop culture poster boy. Sheffield and his friends took pride is finding the most obscure of the obscure bands who played in dirty basements, but they also reveled in a shared identiy and a sincere joy when those bands became accessible to mainstream listeners. And this book is about rock and roll because music is not really about who's singing what way on what album or where. It's about how each of us are affected by it--and with who, where, and when.
I couldn't stress a recommendation more.
This is a book about rock and roll greater than any biography you'll read, or any "Behind the Music" you'll find re-playing at 1am. The point of rock and roll wasn't just rebellion or youth or even artistry. It was a lot about setting music free, and in turn, setting the people who listen to it free. That's why it has changed so much since Elvis shimmied his first shimmy. Here Sheffield describes in detail the evolution of underground grunge rock, a phenomenon that climaxed when Kurt Cobain became a pop culture poster boy. Sheffield and his friends took pride is finding the most obscure of the obscure bands who played in dirty basements, but they also reveled in a shared identiy and a sincere joy when those bands became accessible to mainstream listeners. And this book is about rock and roll because music is not really about who's singing what way on what album or where. It's about how each of us are affected by it--and with who, where, and when.
I couldn't stress a recommendation more.
