Phonographic Memory

Before setting the first foot upon the floor, this morning... or getting nipped on bare legs by a hungry cat... or swearing, audibly, "Not Rain... AGAIN!" when I opened the front door... there was music in my head.

This isn't a rare occurrence. Something in the folds of my gray matter drops the needle on long-buried songs, sometimes before waking. But, recently, preoccupied with fretting over how long I can keep my head above water, if the plants will ever get in the ground, creating online portfolios, and wondering what will become of all this breathing... this house is silent, more often than not.

Perhaps this is compensation. It's not altogether unpleasant.

To score the familiar, unchanging muted daylight, background wall of green, foreground curtain of mist, it was Dinah Washington that began today's refrain:
A decidedly retro soundtrack, for someone born into a rock & roll world.

Crystal-clear enunciation. Shimmering vibrato. Sweeping strings. A touch of melancholy. Lyrically appropriate:

"The leaves of brown came tumbling down, remember?
In September in the rain.

The sun went out just like a dying ember,
That September in the rain.

To ev'ry word of love I heard you whisper,
The raindrops seemed to play a sweet refrain.

Though spring is here, to me it's still September,
That September in the rain."

Harry Warren's music, Al Dubin's lyrics, Miss Washington's evocative voice, and that sensuous backbeat  lose everything in having the words printed here. The only way to experience it is to listen. That's one of the reasons why I went to iTunes, first thing... and wasted no time in converting limited funds to song.

There are more lyrics that didn't get used. They weren't necessary. She said in 2:07 minutes what needed to be said... perhaps, something she learned from Ella Fitzgerald, and passed along to Etta James.

The irony is that somewhere, buried in big plastic bins on the back porch, I know that crusty single is laying in wait, with many others. Another of the limitless things this pause in my life revolves around is sifting through the personal effects of my family. And, being the last man standing, that's my responsibility: organizing the scrapbooks of other people's lives... husbanding what objects they chose to keep... recalling what melodies composed their personal soundtracks.

Another irony is that I hadn't heard that particular tune in a very long time... but, before I had to search for the exact words, they were impressed upon a child's brain, ages ago... and there, they remain.

The two who made this possible are, hopefully, somewhere else, together now.
Two unhappy people, with more potential than opportunity. Bound inseparably since childhood. Born of the Depression, but suffused with angst not unlike kids today. Unsettled. From broken homes. Coming of age in a "Pop" culture. Comfort found in a bottle and a party.

I know about all of this, not because of the boxes of personal effects, but because I was there. My brother, as well. They may have thought we weren't paying attention, but, "Little pitchers have big ears" (so said John Haywood in 1542).

A forever-single mother, raising two boys with no job, with child support the only means of survival in a world that stigmatized the "divorced"... and her cousin, an unashamed gay male in a time when even being closeted wasn't an option--it's from them that so much of this soundtrack became embedded. And now, putting all of the pieces together from these scattered fragments, their life paths make more sense.

Though "imperfect" in an imperfect world, their personal dramas taught the meaning of right-and-wrong... that if you're "straight", you don't have to be "narrow"...what can happen if you lose self-belief... and that music is much more than a needle in a dusty groove.

It'll be a relief to be done with all of the retrospect, when the last item is passed along, recycled, or boxed, yet again. Rejuvenating, when my wheels get back on track, and the sun returns.

But, whether hidden away in a forgotten bin, or inside my head... music will always find a way to return, unbidden. That's not such a bad thing.