I’ve got music in my head, and sometimes it erupts. All it needs is a cue.
It’s a weird gift, my internal tunesmith. It hasn’t changed with age.
Some names bring up old memories: Lucille, Long Tall Sally. Or let me meet someone named Caroline, and off it goes, as if I’m in Boston for the seventh inning stretch. “Good times never felt so good,” I’m thinking, and waiting to pound my mouse along with the “bah-bah-bah” parts.
I wish I were in the video of Boston fans in the subway station. Someone starts it, and they’re all howling “Sweet Caroline,” roaring joy to each other.
I’ve been in loving crowds, such as the one at a Paul Simon concert, when he sang, “Ten thousand people, maybe more,” and there we were.
I also once attended a “Decency Rally,” put on by Baltimore prudes after Jim Morrison of the Doors dropped his trousers at a concert. Just say, “I need to light my fire,” and I’ll snicker lewdly.
As long as there’s music in the air, I’ll never grow up.
Music, etcetera
And the tuba player disappeared
Lessons from a jazz bar shooting
Emily,
I really related to this one, especially the description of Paul Simon’s live concert when he sang the “Sounds of Silence.” I would’ve given anything to be there.