I grew up going to Memphis in May concerts. I went to the free ones on the riverfront and I went to the ticketed events on Mud Island. I drove myself or rode with friends, but I was unsupervised and underage. The events on the river were casual and the police presence was very low key. People wore shorts and t-shirts or they ran around in swimsuits. Everyone sat on blankets and brought a cooler. There was a lot of underage drinking on Mud Island and a slightly smaller amount among the people who brought their own coolers. The music was louder than the people, but everyone was able to talk without screaming. There were food vendors everywhere, even walking through the crowds. The entire area smelled like bbq. The worst part of the events was that you ALWAYS got a sunburn.
We stumbled into the Sundown in the City area last week just to peek at the party. The crowds wandering in and out of the gated area seemed sober and happy. The gates were not to control crowds or charge admission, they were just a controlled way to search what was being brought into the area. This was a ‘buy it from us,’ not a ‘bring a cooler’ event. Once you made it into the gated area, the crowds were absolutely elbow to elbow. It was a giant moshpit, except in moshpits every single person isn’t dangling a cigarette from their fingers. I wonder how many burns were treated in the first aid area that evening. I felt under dressed in my jeans and tank top. Women were wearing heels and going clubbing dresses. Breastfeeding women show less skin than the teenage girls at Sundown. The elbow to elbow conditions worked well for conversations, because talking involved putting your lips to someone’s ear and screaming. It was so loud that the music was almost indistinguishable from the roar of the mass of people screaming at each other. I didn’t have the courage to shove my way down the sidewalk in search of a restaurant that wasn’t elbow to elbow. We ended up going to Cumberland for food. The worst part of the event was that we took our children. The best part was that we learned not to allow our teenagers to attend.
My mother is in her 60s, but she has the same love for music that she has always had. Unfortunately, she never buys music for herself. Most of the time, I buy her CDs that are safe and easy bets. Crooners from the 60s & 70s always get played over and over. Bubble-gum boy bands usually meet with her approval. Every so often, I go out on a limb and get something risky. This year, I knew what I wanted to give her for Mother’s Day. The problem was that as much as my mother loves music, she also loves pop culture and I knew that this singer was more familiar to her as someone in the news than as someone on the radio. I seriously considered covering the disc label and putting it in a blank case. Part of the fun of something new is peeling off the wrapping, so I didn’t try to conceal the artist. She opened her gift and looked shocked. “I knew you wouldn’t buy it for yourself, but I really think you will like it.” “No. I would not have bought this. She is a very troubled young person.” Odds of the music getting played based on that reaction? Slim to none. Next time, I’ll just get her the best of the Bee Gees.
The amount of work required to put together Easter for five children ranging from toddler to teen is very time consuming (and mentally challenging). I can’t fall back on photographs for blog filler, so maybe some music to pass the time?
One of the first albums I bought with my own money was Foreigner 4. A few days after I bought it, one of my father’s business friends borrowed it to make a tape. That’s the old people version of rippin’ your friend’s new CD only without the risk of arrest and monster fines. Anyway, after a week or so, I started harassing my father to get my album back from his co-worker. A couple of MONTHS after the loan, the album was returned with a mutilated cover. The man explained that his “cat” had scratched it, but I was not that naive. My parents were, but I wasn’t. No cat makes row after row of perfectly straight cuts. I was royalled ticked and proceeded to be a complete brat to that man every time I saw him after that incident. He should have been embarrassed to return some kid’s album with clear evidence of his participation in the rapid growth of Columbian exports. I STILL think he owes me a replacement. Except, now it will have to be a CD. Actually, I really would prefer something a little more current. Are you still alive BG? I want my two dollars!
“Mom, have you ever heard of Led Zeppelin?”
“Umm, yes.”
“Have you heard that Kashmir song?”
“Yes. I like it very much.”
“Me too. I need it on my iPod.”
“I think it’s supposed to be played in the car when you’re parked.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes?”
“My favorite song in the whole world is “Shine on You Crazy Diamond.”
“That’s my favorite song, too.”
“Really?”
“Maybe musical taste is genetic.”
“Mooom, that is NOT how genetics works.”
While chauffeuring children today, I pulled up to a red light and noticed the expensive black 2-door sedan in the lane beside me. The car was immaculately clean while every other car on the roads today is grimy from salted roads and rain. The car directly in front of me pulled forward and as I followed I noticed the driver of the black car. He had neatly groomed white hair that stopped just above the collar of his dark suit and white shirt. His face was expressionless and he looked completely still except for his right shoulder. His shoulder rocked and swayed and it was clear that he was hiding whatever that arm was doing. I squished my bumper up so close to the car in front of me that a sneeze would have made our cars touch each other. The man trying so hard to look so, something, was playing air drums with his right hand. He was rocking out hard in the most guarded manner possible. He made me smile. I felt that pleasure of being so lost in the rhythm that you have the ability to play any instrument your mind can imagine. The light turned green and I lost my secret entertainment. I played with the music stations and stopped on something that made me bounce. And sing. And look completely ridiculous while I felt totally happy. I hope the man in the black car has someplace where he feels free to move more than just one arm kept hidden beneath the windows.
