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PopLiFe Popular culture, or pop culture, (literally: "the culture of the people") consists of widespread cultural elements in any given society. Such elements are perpetuated through that society's vernacular language or an established lingua franca. It comprises the daily interactions, needs and desires and cultural 'moments' that make up the everyday lives of the mainstream. It can include any number of practices, including those pertaining to cooking, clothing, consumption, mass media and the many facets of entertainment such as sports and literature. (Compare meme.) Popular culture often contrasts with a more exclusive, even elitist "high culture." March 4, 2007 The Soundtrack of Our Lives Is there anything in the world that defines life more than music, both personally and globally? Historically, I would say that only England rivals America in any kind of competitive way when it comes to producing quantities of music universally lauded as being absolutely spectacular. One might argue that movies more so than music illustrate our way of thinking and being in the world, but I beg to differ. Although I am definitely a major movie buff, I can resolve this argument quickly and succinctly. You can have music without movies, but can you imagine movies without any music? Didn't think so. Music wins. People are very defensive about their music sometimes, often referring to those who don't enjoy "their" music as somehow mentally defective. Admittedly, I listen to Art Garfunkel's voice and wonder how there could be anyone alive who doesn't think it's the most perfect voice in the world. There are those who will positively weep at a good opera, while I will be the one saying, "Please make it stop, my ears are bleeding." Several genres of music, including opera, rap, jazz, soul and heavy metal, fall into a category for me that I can really appreciate the talent of the people who do it well, but I just don't really enjoy what they are doing. I'm sure everyone feels that way to some extent. They say that the greatest, most powerful stimulant of memory is the sense of smell. I've definitely had experiences where this is the case. The smell of Old Spice after shave still takes me back to being 5 with my dad leaving for work in the morning. There is a certain cologne, not even sure what it is, that brings forward strong memories of the second boy I ever really loved, Archie Odell Troutman. It must be a fairly uncommon cologne because I have only smelled it twice since I last saw Odell, on two different landmasses about twenty years apart. One time was in a bank on Bentwaters Air Base in England. Another time was in an Albertson's in Sacramento. In both instances, I was in line behind the man wearing the cologne and no, they were built nothing like Odell and could not have possibly been him. To me, music is even more powerful than scent in terms of memories. I have had the honor of acquiring MP3 versions of a good bit of the country, bluegrass and country gospel music on which I was raised and it still moves me incredibly. I can almost feel my Momma and Daddy right there with me, listening to the music on the big ol' console stereo all in one, the one made of pressed wood with the felted speakers and the top that lifts up to reveal the phonograph, the AM/FM stereo and the cassette or 8-track player. The thing was damned near coffin sized. Music holds so many of my memories for me. I have a song for nearly everything that has ever happened to me. I remember my mother waiting until my dad went to work on Saturdays to turn on American Bandstand and she and I would dance in the kitchen to the music. Dad had some kind of longstanding hatred for Rock and Roll. Not sure why and now, will never know. It's one of the many secrets that death has held from me. I know it was not religiously motivated. I guess, like so many other things, Daddy just didn't like it. Other than that last 20 minutes or so of American Bandstand now and then, I never heard much Rock and Roll until I was in my mid-teens. My very first album that could be considered to be Rock was "The Eagles Greatest Hits, 1971-1975." A dear friend named Ricky Funk gave it to me for Christmas one year. I literally played the record (vinyl, yes) until it wouldn't play any more. My second was "Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits," which I got on 8-track at a yard sale. My dad would yell at me to "turn that monkey music down!!" Mom had the old, hard records that were 78rpm and damned near indestructible. She had Lefty Frizzell and Patsy Cline and so many others. No telling what those things would be worth now, all lost to the ages. When I was dating my first boyfriend, David Utley, he would sing Paul Simon's song, "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover," which made me extremely uneasy, even though we were not lovers. I fell in love with every song Shel Silverstein ever wrote for Dr Hook. I fell in love to almost every song Shel Silverstein ever wrote for Dr Hook. My first husband was a Rock and Roll connoisseur and he taught me tremendous amounts about the genre. Where my father was a Country & Western and Country Gospel walking encyclopedia who would quiz me on things like what song Mel Tillis wrote on the back of a napkin after talking with a waitress at a truck top ("I Ain't Never") to originally penned Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces" (Harlan Howard), Paul was the one who taught me about Robert Plant and The Honeydrippers and Rod Stewart and The Faces and Eric Clapton and Cream and The Yardbirds and absolutely everybody in Rock history. Between the two of them, I got a pretty sound knowledge of those areas of music. One particular memory is etched as clearly in my mind as is today's trip to town. I can almost reach out and touch it. I was fourteen and at the birthday party of one of my best friends, Marty (short for Martha) Canary. Marty was turning sixteen and so this was a party that was for older kids, but Marty was cool enough to invite me. God bless her. It was held at a hotel in Beaver Dam, Kentucky. The name of the hotel escapes me, but it was likely something original like "The Beaver Dam Hotel." They had a nice little ballroom/dining room and it was all decorated and pretty and Marty looked just lovely. I knew I was not Marty's best friend. Everyone in school knew that and I was OK with it. Two other people held that distinction. One was Delona Smiley who was going out with Bobby Duvall and the other was Sherry Boone, who was exclusively dating Greg. I can't recall his last name, but I think it was Nelson. Couldn't swear. Delona, Marty and Sherry were best buddies, BFF's all through school and were in the same grade. I was younger and Marty was good to me and other two tolerated me, but would never remember my name now unless Sherry hates me for the memory I'm about to reveal. In fact, I have never spoken of this to anyone before. Quite a public coming out, wouldn't you say? So here I am with all of the older kids and we've open presents and had our cake and fancy punch in the punch bowls and now the lights dim and there's dancing. Mind you, I couldn't dance a lick back then and truth be told, can't now. I have zero natural grace and no rhythm whatsoever. I was standing with birthday girl Marty and Sherry and Greg danced up to us with Greg fussing a little bit about how Sherry was dancing, saying she was standing too rigid and needed to loosen up a bit. The music was changing and I about pissed myself when he grabbed my hand and said, "Here, I'll bet you can do it" and pulled me onto the dance floor. Greg, in general, looked as though light should be emitting from every pore of his body. His skin was clear and smooth. His hair was curly, soft and blonde. He had muscles and a downy smattering of arm hair. His eyes were the bluest blue ever. He smelled like Marlboro red cigarettes and peppermint. As he pulled me onto the dance floor, Marty and Sherry staring in shock behind us, he put his hands on the small of my back and pulled me close to him. I put my hands on his shoulders and he pulled me a little closer so that they reached around behind his neck where a delicate little extension of his blonde curls fell. We swayed to the music, me breathing in the scent of cigarettes and Starlights and him singing softly, every single, solitary word of the song, from beginning to end, into my ear: "You're here...so am I. Maybe millions of people go by [but he changed it to "dance by"], but they all disappear from view, 'cause I only have eyes for you." What would in the next several years be called a "disco ball" reflected prisms of light all over the floor and the walls. I pulled in closer to him, wanting to savor the moment, knowing my current condition was 100% terminal, but never wanting it to end. In a life that was complex and frightening and insecure and volatile and damned near psychotic, this was one completely perfect moment that made me want to cry. The song was too short, that's for certain. As it ended, he kissed me on the forehead and smiled and we walked back to Sherry and Marty. He said, "That's how it's done" and I immediately became uncomfortable, knowing well that what would be a memory that would rest in a special place in my mind more than 30 years later was probably nothing more than a forgettable teenage power play as they learned about the complications and challenges of love and relationships. He and Sherry went to get drinks and I never saw him again in my whole life... ...except every single time The Flamingos sing that song... ...for thirty-some years now. My first divorce was bookmarked by the song, "The Girl From Yesterday," by The Eagles and "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?" by Michael Bolton. My second divorce was heralded by "Cry" by Faith Hill. (I was a little angrier the second time around) I gave birth to my sixth child while "Ancient Mother" by Robert Grass played. For a year, my song for Eric was "His Friends Are More Than Fond of Robin," by Carly Simon. My fall-apart song has for years been "The Dimming of the Day" by Allison Krauss. When Sister Vestal Goodman sings, asking God to keep her safe 'til the storm passes by, I immediately know that I will be safe until my storm passes by. The other day, I had Rhapsody on a Theme From Paganini (Also known as the "Somewhere In Time" music) playing on the computer while I typed. My husband pulled me up out of my computer chair into a really dynamic kiss and I have to say, good as that kiss was (especially after a solid 10 years of kissin'), it was better with the music. If you pull up next to a car at a stoplight and both of you have windows down, does your opinion of the other person change even slightly if they are listening to music you like? Do you smile if you pass someone on the freeway and see that they are mouthing the words to the very song that you are listening to you on your favorite radio station? It's true that music and movies are deeply wedded. I can never think about the song "Stuck In the Middle With You" by Stealer's Wheel without seeing the Mr. Blonde scene from "Reservoir Dogs." "One Toke Over the Line" is now forever associated with Hunter S. Thompson for me. "Twist and Shout" doesn't make me think about The Beatles nearly as much as it makes me think of Ferris Bueller. "Helter Skelter" = Charles Manson. John Cafferty doesn't sing "On the Dark Side" in my head, Eddie Wilson does. "Everybody's Talkin" is about Ratso Rizzo and Joe Buck, not Harry Nilsson. [As an aside, I do realize that you have to be a complete pop culture nerd like me to get anything of what I just said] Carly Simon has kept the world intrigued for thirty-five years with the mystery of just who she was writing and singing about in the song "You're So Vain." Personally, my money's on Beatty. Likewise, people still wonder what Billie Joe McAllister and the unnamed first person speaker threw off the Tallahatchie Bridge in the song "Ode to Billie Joe," not to mention why Billie Joe himself took a header off not long after. The original singer and songwriter, Bobbie Gentry, admits that she didn't have a clue why Billie Joe jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge or what he and the narrator were chucking off that same bridge. Her point in writing the song was not at all about those questions, which is why she didn't give them particular thought, but more about the fact that the family was sitting around nonchalantly talking about his suicide, passing around mashed potatoes and black-eyed peas while the song's narrator was dying inside because she'd been involved with Billie Joe. In the subsequent novel and film (by Herman Raucher of "Summer of '42" fame), the story was created that Billie Joe killed himself because he realized he was gay and what had first gone over the bridge was the accidental tossing of the narrator's childhood rag doll, marking her ascent into adulthood. What we, as grade-schoolers when the song came out in 1967, concluded was that they were throwing a baby off the bridge. Why our minds went there, I can't even imagine (and don't really want to). Either way, that year the song got 8 Grammy nominations and 4 wins. Mick Jagger sang to David Bowie's wife in "Angie." When Bob Dylan first met The Beatles on their initial tour to America, he casually whipped out the wacky weed, sure that they were stoners because in the chorus of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" they sang, "I get high, I get high, I get high" when they were actually singing, "I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide." (Well, that's The Beatles' story and I guess they're stickin to it). A wonderful book called "'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy" (Referring to the Jimi Hendrix line that is actually 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky") talks about a number of commonly misheard song lyrics and is just a ton of fun. Jeannie C. Riley proved that it wasn't just the long-haired-hippie-freak kids who were rebelling against authority and hypocrisy when she sang, "Harper Valley PTA." Johnny Paycheck caused middle America to stand up and cheer with his anthem, "Take This Job and Shove It." Lee Greenwood moved us all to tears and made our patriotic hearts grow two sizes too big with "Proud to Be An American." Poor Ronald Regan made a complete ass of himself by using "Born in the USA" by Bruce Springsteen as his campaign song for re-election in 1984 since the song is actually about how badly the US screwed up in the Vietnam War. Guess he didn't listen much to the words. Hahaha. In researching to get the year that Regan ran for re-election, I found this:
A Sesame Street version of the very popular Springsteen album, "Born to Run":
I mean, I am just so easily amused. If there is a world without music, I can't imagine that I would want to live in it. I'm not even a music fanatic to the point that a lot of people I know are. My computer music collection is only about 13giggybytes. I can't sing a lick. I have very little musical ability when it comes to instruments. There are huge areas of music that I can barely stand to hear (anything Top 40 Pop or the whole "Boot Scoot Boogie" line dancing side of country pretty much makes my brain seize up). Heavy Metal and the "Scream-o" music my daughter loves causes me to blink and wonder where the music actually is in it. There's a lot of music that I just don't get. But you know? What I do get, I really, really like. A lot.
"The man that hath
no music in himself, "Music ... can
name the unnamable and communicate the unknowable." "Music has charms
to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or to bend a knotted
oak." "Music is the
vernacular of the human soul." "Music washes away
from the soul the dust of everyday life."
"He has a woman's name and wears makeup. How original."
One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.
Music is the silence between the notes.
Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.
A verbal art like poetry is reflective; it stops to think. Music is immediate, it goes on to become.
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