Music is a big part of my life; it feeds my soul. I grew up in a musical family–my grandfather played violin professionally (he once even played with Frank Sinatra’s band). My dad is a guitarist, and my mom, a pianist. Both brothers picked up guitars and drums, and I followed in my grandfather’s footsteps for a few years in my youth, squeaking out renditions of Mozart and Mendelssohn on my own violin (although I was not as good as he was). When he passed away, his violin went into the possession of my Aunt, where it now resides in her home in South Florida, gathering dust (but hopefully not mold). I also played piano for a bit, but could master neither instrument due to my utter inability to read music. That did not stop me from picking out tunes “by ear”, as they put it, and to this day I still play “by ear”.
Music in my family was not just limited to instruments. I grew up on my parent’s immense record collection–the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Andy Williams, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Wings, Benny Goodman, Big Band music, jazz, classical…I remember my mom’s favorite past time from my youth–she would go into the living room and silently extract an album–pinkish in hue–and drop it on the turntable; the needle would scratch and then “Concert for Bangladesh” would pour from the speakers, and I knew my mom was about to start baking. She would sing along to George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” as she baked, the smell of bread filling the room and intertwining with the music. This was her time, this music: it was not something my dad would listen to; it was something completely her own.
My dad is more of a jazz aficionado. An oldies lover. Bing Crosby, Old Blue Eyes, the Rat Pack. I jokingly put the local jazz station on my pre-programmed radio dial so he can listen to it when they visit. He approved with a hearty, “that’s my girl!” and an awkward hug. ( I actually catch myself listening to his station, now, and I like it.) Christmas music is especially important to him. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Growing up, every Thanksgiving dinner would end with the “Official Start to the Brundage Christmas Season”: the Ray Coniff Singers’ “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” (my dad’s choice). The vinyl is tinny, and scratched, but filled with a catchy, sixties jingle-bell vibe. The cover is something to behold. Ray Coniff and singers are clad in Santa suits; the female vocalist gets the pleasure of donning a short, sixties Santa suit mini and black go go boots. The colors are bright, brash, and pure 1962. Even though my mom has replaced the vinyl with a CD copy for my dad, he still plays the vinyl. It is tradition. I received a copy of this CD from my parents a couple of years ago. They had retired and moved out of state, which meant we could no longer spend all the holidays together. I found myself putting on the Ray Coniff singers at Thanksgiving,. I found myself carrying on the tradition.
The first album I ever got was Wham’s “Make It Big”. We were on a family vacation in Virginia to see my cousin get married, and I must’ve been around eight at the time. We were browsing in the local Tower Records, and my parents said I could get a walkman as my “trip souvenir”, so I picked out a shell pink Magnavox. Of course, I needed a tape to go with it, so I chose Wham! from the bargain bin. I was drawn to the bright cover, the big hair. My sister—older, a big influence on my musical tastes when I was younger—convinced me that I had to have a crush on one of them, so I chose Andrew. I’m not really sure why. George was certainly considered the be the front runner, the sexy one, the showman, the brawn. But I liked Andrew’s innocent smile and softer features, and his plaintive “nah nah nah nah nahhhhh…” on “Everything She Wants”. So I chose Andrew. And boy did I get teased for it. Relentlessly! I never told anyone that I imagined Andrew was my first boyfriend. I think I even wrote him a letter, but not knowing where to send it to, I kept it stored away under my bed, in a shoe box with other secret things.
The first album I ever bought myself was the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine”. I had saved up my allowance for something new, and I bought the tape one day when I was browsing in the music store after school. I had already seen the movie and wanted the song “Pepperland” so very badly: my parent’s scratched up vinyl just wouldn’t do. I wanted my own copy. I had a secret project in store: a choreographed roller-skating routine to Pepperland. Never mind that the Olympics was on at that time and I was obsessed with the figure skaters. I perfected my Pepperland routine and performed it to an audience of family members one evening out on the driveway. Good times.
When I was a teenager, I got into the Cure, Echo & the Bunnymen, Depeche Mode, The Pet Shop Boys, and “goth” music—Bauhaus, Joy Division, Dead Can Dance, Dali’s Car. But the Cure truly put a spell on me. I was a babysitter at the time, and I would save up every dollar to buy anything Cure-related. Robert was my hero, my first love. The makeup, the hair, the angst. God, that smile completely bowled me over. I became beyond obsessed. Everything was the Cure, and the Cure was everything. I collected their t-shirts, videos, books, movies. I made a Robert doll on my sewing machine and plastered their posters all over my room. I couldn’t get enough. I was Robert for Halloween when I was 15, complete with wild hair, eye makeup, and guitar (thanks to my brother who lent me his Telecaster). Robert’s lyrics and music spoke to me in ways that no one ever had before. When I finally saw the Cure in concert, a couple of years later, I cried. Robert was THERE, in person, and he was singing just for me. It was a phenomenal, indescribable experience. It changed the way I listened to music, saw music, had music in my life.
I grew out of the black hair dye in my early 20’s and got into DJ-ing and mix-tape-making. Mix tapes were especially important during my dating years. I think it is an unspoken rule that what you feel too shy to say to a date in person, you put on a mix tape for him / her to hear later. A mix tape is like a love letter in musical form. I gave and received many mix tapes over the years that I was a single girl. Popular songs that I received included the Lightning Seeds’ “Pure”, The Cure’s “Perfect Girl”, and Bob Dylan’s “Shelter From the Storm”. I also gave these songs back—along with my heart—to a boyfriend or two over the years.
As perhaps fate would have it, I married a musician and music lover. Music is my husband’s passion. When he plays his guitar, I joke that it takes an average of 10 seconds for him to answer me if I ask him a question. He is deep in the “mode”, his “guitar face” plainly displayed. Guitar face is a cross between a fixed stare and a dreamy smile. It’s pure concentration and joy mixed into one. He’s tried to teach me to play: I can’t. But I’ve learned to appreciate a lot of music because of him. Because of Ben, I’ve listened to (and developed an appreciation and even liking of) bands like Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden (not that Ben’s a metal head. But those are bands that I never really considered to be “good” before I met Ben.) He loves Amoeba; he loves going to shows. He is always interested in something new. And I love that about him–his passion for music. And it rubs off on me (although I don’t think I’ll ever develop a love for Amoeba or Aquarius Records to the point that I want to go there every weekend). 
I first met my husband’s parents about a month after we started dating. They live two hours away, and we were driving home, late at night, after meeting them for dinner. My then boyfriend slipped a cassette into the car cassette player—“do you want to hear what I’ve been working on for you?” he asked. He proceeded to play a mix he was working on. The first song was Jimmy Scott’s “Dedicated to You”. He followed that with “Day by Day”, also by Jimmy Scott. By the time the third song, Coltrane’s “Naima”, came on, I knew he was the one. I was head over heels in love and his mix tape had done it to me.
My love for music intertwines itself into everything I do. It is especially important to me when I commute to work or when I out riding on my bike. I don’t mind my 45 minute commute because it means that I can listen to 45 minutes of music. I cycle on local bike trails, and I take my music along with me. Once I’m off the main road, I plug in and tune into my “zone”. I can ride a lot farther because of my music. When I commute to work, I listen to my latest favorites (constantly changing). When I’m cycling, I’m more inclined to listen to electronic-based music (house, electronica, ambient). Lately it’s been Mercury Rev’s “Snowflake Midnight”, Dam-Funk’s “Toeachizown”, and Blue Amazon’s “Javelin”.
I’ve always been bad at conclusions, so I’m not sure what else to write. Music is part of who I am, and I think it always will be. I was made that way. And I’m grateful.
