Memories? They're Not Unusual
by Laurey Boyd
I’m
reliving my childhood and I don’t have to drive to my parents’
house to do it.
The memories come to me in my own home through the music of my childhood, beamed to me via satellite radio onto my TV. Who knew? Certainly not me! I simply press a couple of buttons to select "standards" on my remote, and voila, I’m transported back in time to my childhood home listening to what the adults termed "good music.”
The male singers -- Frank, Bobby, Andy, even the libidinous Tom -- dressed like adults. That is, they wore suits. The women -- Ella, Rosemary, Nancy -- wore cocktail dresses. They came to me in those days through television too, in variety shows and specials. That was my Pleasantville, watching well dressed people stroll seemingly carefree in front of stage scenery singing about love. That life was idyllic.
However,
even in that age of innocence, there were snakes in the garden. My mother
took a special dislike to Tom Jones. He was Vile! Vulgar! and if those
didn’t elicit the proper revulsion in us kids, he was Oily! His
show came on after a program my brother and I were actually allowed to
watch. But if Mom heard or, horrors, saw that we were beginning to watch
Oily’s show, the apocalypse would begin. "He cannot sing !
All he can do ... is WIGGLE! HIS! TAIL!" If my brother or I had not
made real strides toward turning off the TV by the beginning of that sentence,
we surely had by the end of it and had better be looking at the little
white dot in the middle of the screen if we valued our lives.
Once, on a quest for erudition (actually I was bored), I channel surfed into a short film on PBS. It was about a man absolutely enslaved to music. It had no dialogue, just "Shake Your Groove Thing" playing as this man was trying to drive home, unlock his door, open the refrigerator, pour himself a glass of orange juice and drink it all while jerking violently at the command of the music. He was powerless against it. In some ways, so am I, but I surrender happily.
Whenever the opportunity presents itself, I’m ready to Come Fly Away with Frank and Hear Angels Cheer Because We’re Together. Nothing seemed to faze him. He snapped his fingers and he was in command. He exuded confidence. Bobby was off the charts when it came to self-assuredness. Quien es mas macho? Decision: Frank. But I’ll take Bobby’s junior version any day as well.
I could be starry-eyed-Rosemary vulnerable and Let Love Make A Fool Of Me. I’ve never been too wise and who would want to be? It would turn out okay. Ella assured me so. She snapped and scat sang right back in her sweetly feminine way. If she was taken for a tramp, so be it.
These days
when my husband and I hear "It’s Not Unusual" start to
play, we both beat a quick trail to the living room so we can dance together,
Tom Jones style, to what has become “ our song.” Our youngest
and only remaining teenager shakes his head and grimaces as he watches.
He thinks Five Iron Frenzy does the better version of the song. But how
could they? They don’t even wear suits. Child, child. He’ll
come around. I did. And what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t
teach my children musical appreciation?
Writer
Laurey Boyd's email is