Listening to music from high school is grand tonic for my tired heart. I spent a morning last week listening to “When I Woke” and set myself to the past.
Deer Valley, a YMCA family camp, and hearing the album for the first time. It was exotic and clearly something all the college-kid counselors had. I had to have it, too.
Rusted Root playing to a packed audience of Johnny Hop students: knowing I had been in on the secret for a good seven years before my peers clued in. Also, Ben desperately wanting to hook up with Liz Berlin, who, I assured him, was married, and her thanking him for his phone number by calling him “so sweet.”
Carpooling to the PMEA honors band practices with four boys from my band: Nate, Zach, Joe and Joe. Zach and I were in the front seat, after rehearsal, singing along to every song. With abandon. Halfway through the CD, he turned to me and asked, “Do you actually know any of these words?” I assured him I did not either, and we continued to sing.
Watching Wilco at the Pittsburgh Arts Festival for free, standing but feet away from Michael Glabicki.
Always the girl who danced with her arms in a time when no one else did: Evan Mayo-Wilson watching me dance to “Ecstasy” at Homecoming in ninth grade and saying that he could always find me in a crowd because I was the only one with my arms in the air. Oh, how I was in love with Justin then and cringed when my date asked me, “Do you think it would be a bad idea for us to go out?”
Seeing Rusted Root open for Jewel with Kelly at the Starlake amphitheater. The sound guy could have done a better job by using some good car speakers than he did with the amphitheater’s sound system.
Years and years of putting “Food and Creative Love” on every mix tape I made: for myself, for Eve, for Adam, for the man of the hour. I still believe that all I need is food and creative love.
I totally still wear the concert shirt around the house. Phil hates it.
My copy of When I Woke is all scratched up but I keep it around because sometimes it’s the only thing that will do. Oh! And the reason it’s all scratched up is that it’s actually Jess Summers’ copy. She took my non-scratched copy and returned her scratched one. And denied it! Not that I’m bitter.
My cousin’s wedding last month ended with the DJ playing Send Me On My Way and it kind of threw me. I didn’t realize it was a mainstream end of party song in rural Vermont!