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It was a normal family dinner. Brothers taunting, forks clanging and Sheryl Crow’s voice streaming from Dad’s “dinner playlist” in the next room. “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones popped up next on Dad’s iPod and his eyes lit up as if he was in a reminiscent daze.
“1981. Sophomore year of high school. Driving in my Mustang,” he said in reference to the song playing.
“Dad what are you talking about?” I asked. “How can you remember when this song came out?”
“Come on, you just don’t forget things like that,” he said. “Music is the soundtrack of your life.”
“You sound like a Disney Channel star,” I said.
But I didn’t really mean what I had just said; that statement was just necessary to preserve my image. Agreeing with my Dad’s clichéd statements would only encourage more of them to come. Image aside, I thought what he said was really true. I realized that in my own life, some of my most defining moments have had songs that I associate with them. The power of music is incredible: you can be somewhere and hear an old song and instantly be transported back to the time and place you were when you first heard it.
Family dance parties. As crazy as that sounds, that is where my love of music began. This tradition started when I was in kindergarten and continued clear up until third grade until I was far too “cool” for it. These dance parties consisted of my brothers and I choosing a selection of songs from my parents eclectic music collection and dancing around our coffee table together. The song selection ranged from Michael Jackson to Madonna to R.E.M. but ultimately always ended with our favorite, “September” by Earth Wind & Fire.
Whenever I hear the beginning “aahhhh eeehhh ahhhs” I am no longer 17. I am that innocent seven-year-old in my Skechers tennis shoes and butterfly clips dancing with my family oblivious to how ridiculous I looked. To me, that song is my family and all the good times we’ve shared. It’s like an old blanket that I still find comfort in.
Fast forward a couple of years from that naïve seven year old to a 12-year-old on the brink of growing up. It was the final swim team banquet of the summer. Girls in brightly colored sundresses linked arms around sunburnt boys and swim coaches. “Live Like You Were Dying” by Tim McGraw came on the loud speaker and everyone on the team started to sway back and forth and sing along. Tears started rolling freely from the eyes of the younger ones and the older kids did their best to hold their tears back.
The sadness of swim team ending coupled with the song’s message about how short life is really hit me. This was the first time in my life that I realized things would not always stay the same. Now, when this song pops up on my iPod, I laugh silently to myself. It reminds of when I learned the harsh truth of growing up. It takes me back to the time when I thought that I would be forever young, running around with swim team friends without a care in the world.
A little bit farther down the road came high school and cross country. I could tell you about the 4 a.m. race wake up calls, the practice workouts I thought I’d never live through to tell or the number of Asics Gel-Cumulus soles I’ve worn down; but what sticks out most to me is one race and one song. It was sophomore year regionals and all I had to do to make it to state was to stick with one girl. Stepping up to the line, I tried to clear my mind of anything that would distract me. Once the gun fired, my mind went blank, except for one line from one song. “The bliss between giving my all and giving up” from the song “Ooh Ahh” by Grits played on repeat. Every step. Every mile. It was almost haunting. I was nearing the finish and felt strong, and then something snapped. I had a mental breakdown. All of my hard work went out the window as I felt myself start to slow down and lost the girl.
The song continued to echo in my head even after the race and seemed to remind me how easily failure had consumed me. Once I crossed the finish line I vowed to never listen to that song again. But now I occasionally force myself to listen to it for inspiration. I’m determined to experience the bliss of giving my all.
The last song on my soundtrack is also one of failure. But failure or not, this taught me a valuable lesson. This past summer, my friends and I were cruising around our neighborhood, turning up the music to ungodly levels and dancing in my car – just doing what we do best. I was dropping one of my friends off at her house when I glanced at my clock and noticed that I was already five minutes late for curfew. Singing along carelessly to “Summer Nights” by Rascal Flatts, I put the car in reverse and crunch went my poor bumper against my friend’s solid brick wall. My heart dropped and I got out of the car to observe the damage: the back bumper was crushed in and the tail light was smashed.
“My dad is literally going to kill me.”
I sped home with this happy-go-lucky song in the background and watched as disappointment spread across my dad’s face. I dealt with the consequences and immediately removed that CD from its player. Although I try to avoid this song at all costs, it occasionally pops up and reminds me of that painful mistake I made that one summer night. The mistake that would teach me that I was just as capable of crashing my car as anyone else. The mistake that forced me to take responsibility for my own actions.
Looking back at my “soundtrack,” one might find it to be a random jumble of songs. But hey, that’s life. The beauty of music is that it is relatable at all stages of life. You can be a carefree seven year old dancing to ‘80s funk music. Or a careless driver blasting a summer country song. There will always be a song associated with these memories that will take you to that point in time.
Kenny Chesney put it perfectly.
“Everytime I hear that song, I go back.”
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