She Had Me at Pearl Jam

Alec : You cannot have The Pretenders’ first album! That’s mine.

Leslie : I bought it!

Alec : You did not! You can have all the Billy Joels... except The Stranger.

Leslie : I'm taking Thriller and Mahler’s ninth.

Alec : No Springsteen is leaving this house! You can have all the Carly Simons.

Wes and I recently were searching for a song* on Spotify, scrolling on my phone among the colorful thumbnail covers.

“We own that one,” he said pointing to the Wallflowers’ Bringing Down the Horse image.

No. We don’t. 

We don’t actually own music together. He was thinking of his albums and CDs that live in the attic. The ones that predate me. Predate technology. They predate our children.

Either way, his words reminded me of the Hollywood Brat Pack drama between newly broken-up Alec (Judd Nelson) and Leslie (Ally Sheedy) in St. Elmo’s Fire. (I realize I am dating my young self repeatedly here.)

Wes and I may have brought our individual CDs and album collections to our marriage, but the only music we have purchased together has been tickets to concerts. Even our Spotify accounts are separate.

Shortly after our first date, I did something I considered brilliant. I left my then hi-tech 2nd gen iPod Shuffle, wrapped in its white wired earbuds, at his front door. If you know my music, you know me. I wanted him to know me. I wanted him to love me.

The tiny 1GB capacity silver gizmo held a whopping 240 songs, and would clip to my pocket or waistband on a run. 

It was my lifeline. 

Artists included Clapton, Bad Co., Goo Goo Dolls, Keith Urban, Otis Redding, The Peasall Sisters, Randy Travis, Janet Jackson, Slaid Cleaves, Toby Keith, The Wailin’ Jennys... 

After listening, he paid me likely one of the best compliments I have ever received, 

“I’ve never known a chick who liked Pearl Jam.” 

Yep, I’m that proud gal. Be still, my Eddie Vedder heart. Who couldn’t love that gravelly, rare, deep, pure voice. It’s as if he is uttering the depths of his very soul while feeling mine. 

Just Breathe? OMG.

I still own an iPod. Not the Shuffle, but a Nano. It belonged to my dad, a device he did not know how to use, so he gave it to me on our last visit — the last time I saw him. On the back, it is inscribed:

Dr. Thomas Wood
Compliments Dr. Joe Borelli

I don’t know much about Dr. Borelli, or why he gave my then 76-year-old fellow physician dad — a man who listened to 8-tracks — an iPod Nano, but it is now my treasure. The thing I’d go back in for if my house were ablaze. Its once-impressive, now turned ancient 4GB technology plays on a tiny stereo dock — most of its songs once-upon-a-time intentionally curated by me, for me, from iTunes — at the bargain price of 99¢ a pop. 

The wide array, inherited from the shuffle, brings me back. It still reflects the newly-single-gal Courtney era in which my dim light was restored by many divine touches: the grace of the good Lord, the prayers of friends and family, and the solid gold reliability of The Reverend Al Green. 

My mojo music. It’s not stored in the cloud, nor in a wooden crate from Peaches Records and Tapes, nor on a shelf. It’s saved on this little shiny device that I miraculously can still play. It is tangible and it’s mine. 

Recently, I had the inspirational experience of interviewing a scholarship recipient for work. Carsen is only 20.

“What do you do for fun?” I asked her as we were finishing our conversation. 

“I like to collect vinyl. I have a giant record collection,” she replied. “I love anything earlier than the 2000s — 90s jam bands, classic rock, bands like Pearl Jam or artists like Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, all that stuff like that.”

She had me at Pearl Jam. 

And she blew me away with this vintage list from way beyond her youth. What a cool kid. I wonder what her friends think about her music. Is she influencing the Swifties of her generation to one more like mine? A time when WE were the shufflers of songs instead of the applied algo-rhythms of iPod, Spotify, Pandora, SoundCloud. This spunky gal doesn’t need a Scarf Season playlist; she knows exactly which mood to play.

And she does so through the art and intentional act of selecting an album off the shelf, removing the record from its sleeve, purposefully and carefully placing it on the turntable, lifting the needle to the desired ring. No need to press play. That is cool.

Wes and I have similar tastes in music, aaaand there are some that we mostly keep to ourselves. (My Lumineers to his Grateful Dead.) We might not have a shared collection per se, but we do have a shared appreciation for its requisite presence in our home. 

Thankfully, I don’t foresee the need to divide up the Springsteen. 

• • •

*(Up From Under - masterfully written and sung by Jakob Dylan)