MinneapolitanMusic

I've been retracing footsteps a lot lately, reconnecting with people from my past and thinking about the ones that "got away," so to speak. I don't want to get too heavy/personal, but it's time for a good ol' Minneapolitan rant about music and life.

I've been thinking a lot about why I seem to approach music differently than a lot of people that I know (not to say that any one way is better or worse, more just a reflection about what my approach says about me), and I keep coming back to one answer: music is a personal experience, and I find it impossible to separate my emotions and situational attachments from the songs.

Not to over generalize here, but I feel that most music analysts with whom I speak / whose work I read have some sort of innate ability to technically analyze music, to stand at the back of a crowded room buzzing with the energy of fans and rock and roll and be able to shrug and say, "yeah, these guys are ok." I can't do it. I'm sorry. I know I have this looming responsibility to report the truth and if a band sucks I'm supposed to whip right around and type up an essay reprimanding them for their bad performance, but I can't do it. At least not yet.

Let's back up one step. This all started because I decided to listen to some older records and cross stitch a small picture of a Scottie dog for my husband (god I am so damn cool; don't worry I am also wearing a knit cardigan and reading glasses and rocking in a creaky chair - why am I 74 years old?) and the record that came on was Ryan Adams, Gold. I don't know how you feel about Adams, but this record is a monumental part of the end of my adolescence and I can't listen to it without thinking about frolicking for the first time in college and getting my heart broken. It's one of those unrequited love stories that are hard to shake, even years later when you have clearly (ring!) moved on, and from the first chord of "New York, New York" I find this big lump welling up in the back of my throat, thoughts uncontrollably flung five years prior and eyes adrift. The tracks progress and each one has a different memory (I played that album constantly for about six months): this one is when he told me I had sad eyes, this one is for the time I climbed out my window to ride around in his car all night, this one was on repeat the night we split.

My point is, when I went to see Ryan in concert, I didn't care that his backing band was a little off or that his voice cracked in the first chorus of the third song - I was in it, man. I was too busy standing there with my hand on my chest, trying to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest and running off to find Mr. Long Lost Love. Those songs were mine, and I owned them just as much as the singer, who swaggered drunkenly around the stage and dicked off between songs because he was "a little baked." I didn't care if he was an asshole; for that night he got to be my hero.

So what do I do? I can't ever be the cold, hard hitting journalist. All I can do is write from my heart and hope I don't get laughed at.

What's your favorite heartbreaking, life altering, time stands still tune?