They say a foggy memory is the first sign that you are aging, but I’m here to tell you that it’s more likely that you’ll be driving along (during the day of course because you can’t see so well at night) when you flip to a radio station and find that your music collection has been hijacked and turned into an oldies station.
Perhaps there were musical harbingers of oldness that I had chosen to ignore: the fact that I own vinyl and not in that hipster cool way but in the you can borrow my copy of “Chipmunk Punk” way, the fact that I have a massive collection of tapes (one being a recording of when Q 106.5 went off the air here in St Louis because at my age for whatever reason I thought that would be something worth documenting), and the fact I spent a very long summer afternoon sipping margaritas and moving my tomes of high school music into my iTunes library. That’s right, I have been alive long enough to legitimately own three different types of music storage media. Three because I am just on this side of 8-tracks.
A couple of weekends ago as my thirty-second birthday (yes, I am not old enough to have to lie about it yet) approached, a local alt-rock station-the one that took me from Seattle-grunge virgin to progressive rock woman-was having what they call a “Way Back Weekend.” Now mind you this isn’t the first I’ve heard of this, but it was the first time that it occurred to me that I knew the words to every.single.song. Songs I learned in a pre-Google-era, when you would pray for lyrics on the CD insert or get creative with your EQ to isolate lyrics because it was crucial you knew every word. An era when life was so easy that you actually had time to devote to learning Nirvana’s entire library-which in all their random glory requires a higher level of functioning that even four years of college level lit classes hasn’t helped me figure out. My high school CD collection is now considered a throwback.
During said “wayback weekend” I found myself singing along to a Stabbing Westward song that I has considered a favorite, a song that was so passionate and resonated so well with my love-torn 18-year-old heart. As the song ended, without having forgotten a single word mind you, I turned to the Mister and said, “God that song is way melodramatic.”
Also, get off my lawn.
devil horns | mel