While reading in bed and basking in the loveliness of not-law, I was gripped with an overwhelming sensation to listen to old Pixies songs and then horror struck: I had absolutely no idea where my ipod was. This may seem like a bit of an over dramatic reaction, however if anyone has ever felt the need to hear a specific song at a specific time, then you know what I am talking about. Now, I claim to be-and very snarkily, I will admit-to be a music snob so it would seem a bit ironic the fact that I have no idea where my ipod was located at this particular instance. The truth is, I have two ipods...ok, the truth is I have three. I know, I know! But the nano is for running, and therefore does not feature soulful or artsy music, thus will not contain my coveted Pixies album, and my mini I may have dropped one or two occassion too many, and it therefore lost its winding-ball, which doesn't matter much since you cannot see through the faceplate anyway. This leaves my last video ipod which contains 29GB of music or roughly enough to last me a song for every moment the characters on LOST have been on the island (this was an accurate reference until that whole time travel scenario warped time and my interest in JJ Abrams' endings). In searching for my ipod I first checked the stereo, but it was not plugged in, so the next logical place I could think to look would be the car. I opened the glove compartment, but instead of finding my ipod I did find 4 very lonely looking, dishelveled cds. I looked at them a bit trying to remember when I decided to keep them in there. I always keep one or two on hand in case I cannot get the blasted ipod converter system to work (if you haven't figured it out already, I'm not a technicalogical person). So I took out the cds and here is what I had on-hand for my emergency music: (1) homemade country mix cd given by an ex-(very ex) boyfriend, (2) Liz Phair's least selling album, but has my favorite cover on the front, (3) Cyndi Lauper's newest attempt at her comeback from last summer which I have listened to a grand total of twice and that was only to be polite, (4) the only listenable cd in the collection which was DeathCab's summer release Narrow Stairs, which I picked up the day it was released because I knew I was going to the concert in a few weeks and I was all jazzed up.
It was a symbol of the summer actually because I ran into one of those old posh cd stores off the main drag in Santa Barbara where the two teenage boys behind the desk look at you like you are ancient and you know nothing of emotions or music unless you can relate the depths of Hoobastank to MCR. I was too jazzed to care about these esoteric youths until I got to the DeathCab section and found it extremely lacking. Normally, in any of these stores they always stock the DeathCab a few rows worth because this is a band both hipsters and normal people who like music with good lyrics can appreciate. On this particular day, in this particular store, of the 12 albums DeathCab has created only a scant 3 were in view and barely a copy of each. However, this was a release day. I looked at the wall and the display that clearly indicated each should be holding the wealth of Narrow Stairs, but all empty. I therefore had to make my way back to the youths and ask, 'what gives?" We then had a detailed 10 min chat about the name, the spelling of DeathCab for Cutie, and the name of the album. Suddenly, in a moment of clarity, I heard it! "Cath..." rang through the speakers of the store bearly audible over the chatterings of the store. "That!" I yelled at the youths, "turn it up!" We all listened for the moment and the Yellow-haired youth understood. "Oh, is this what you are talking about?" he asked as he held up the beautifully colored jewel case. "This is the store's copy. It's not for sale and all our inventory is empty. You'll have to try back again. We get our next shipment in 3 weeks." This was unacceptable. "What will you give me for the store's copy?" I asked, a bit out of line. "Umm...we don't really sell them. They get given away to the employees when they aren't used in the stores anymore." "Well, why don't you let me buy it off the next person who is supposed to get it off the employee list," I asked. A perky haired girl from way under the desk said she was next in line and offerred me the used ticket price of 9.99. I told her sold! The jewel case has a crack in it from its wear around the record store but I took it back, put it in my cd player and rode all the way to the beach with it. I listened to it probably a hundred and one times in the car, on a walk, on the beach, and when the concert came we all knew all the words to every song. It was a phenomenal experience and far outbeats the cds curling up at home in my car.
This trip down memory lane left me with this final revelation: I love cds. I love their look, I understand their process, and I'm sad our culture has such little use for them any longer. Everyone used to be able to hand them over and trade and when you were really edgy put up the front art on your walls, have cd walls arranged by artist or genre. Cds were a major part of growing up and listening to music. This experience is almost completely obliterated in our current culture. For all the good things ipods and itunes and youtube has brought with it, it has killed the romance out of our lives. I remember sitting up all night with my girlfriends coming up with songs about which boys we liked and which we hated and which ones described us today and where we will be further in our lives and it took time and energy to do so. Cds have become so completely outdated, but it is by this labeling that makes me think that this even enhances its romantic appeal. To make a mix cd you had to have the music yourself, you must have to flesh out the meaning of each song and convert it into something newer and purer for another to understand your motives for this stream of movement of music.
I have friends who still do this. Occassionally we give each other life playlists and it is nice, but nothing can beat getting that one special cd with the cover art and labeled songs just for you. They were giving you a part of them and creating a part of you, at least this was the hope. These days are getting fewer and further between. Why don't we do this anymore? Did you know my boyfriend doesn't own cds?! Even if he ends up being the one I want to spend every day with and we create our story, the one piece missing from our story is a soundtrack because we will never have one. I will never get my mix cd signifying love, passion, romance, and intelligence about our relationship. I will never want to give one for fear of giving away too much and so our love will never have a voice or a song. Playlists really can make and break the relationship and people don't realize it. The move away from cds has been a move away from an experience.
I want my cds back. I climbed down to my basement and dug through boxes and finally found one. It had mismatched cds in different jewel cases and showed of many names forgotten, but I grabbed by headphones and had a music lovefest. I spend a while walking around with the spin doctors and thier forgotten careers. Had a glass of wine with Sheryl Crow and Liz Phair because I think those girls are pretty awesome, if only Shryl could be a little less dippy and Phair to like men a little more. I think they can teach each other. Then I rocked out with Beastie Boys and ACDC who were happy enough to come out and be heard. On cd you can almost tell when your favorite part is coming up in the way the cd player winds up to deliver your favorite song. But as a final finale I brought out the reason for the night: The long forgotten Pixies: I put in the Complete "B" Sides and danced around for a bit, but we all know what I really wanted was the holiday song, so I put on Surfer Rosa and blasted it and it felt good and it felt sad, and it just felt.
The next need I had was to fulfill my longing with the Velvet Underground. I had now switch to hard liqour clincking from my glass hitting the scattered wrekage, but this was what I needed; I needed "Heroin." Its soft, but never simple. Its the way any addiction starts out. Its drugs. Its a rush. Its seduction. Its a crush. Its love. Its the way a guy who doesn't know love tells a love story.
But things can never end this intense for a wednesday night. We must switch mediums. Back to the old record player upstairs that I begged mom not to get rid of. I have hundreds of vinyls I will never listen to, but precisely 5 I will always listen to and the number one is the Belle and Sebastian single I got for a dollar in a record shop you would expect to find it in L.A. So after the drinking and emotions and rage and tears, we end with this. Belle and Sebastian on vinyl: I'm a Cuckoo...
I was high from playing shows... / I'm a little lost sheep
waking up this misery... / wondering how things could have been... /
I'd like to see you, but really I should let you settle down / I've got no claims to your crown... /
I was there when you were sad... / I need to get you by my side
There's something wrong with me, I'm a cukoo.......................
and that is how a night should be ended. If I were writing a playlist for you right now, dear listener, that would be the final song of the album with album art drawn from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
I still don't know where my ipod is, but my soul is settled. Sometimes life just needs a soundtrack for a little while
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