People often say that smell is the strongest memory trigger in terms of the senses. I’d argue that, for me, hearing — and particularly music — is a more dramatic way to transport my thoughts back in time.
I was driving home from the grocery store on Saturday afternoon when an annoying commercial prompted me to scan my radio presets. At that time, one of the country stations was featuring Alan Jackson’s “Little Bitty.” This song was fitting for the vibrantly sunny and upbeat weather we experienced last weekend, but my thoughts were not in Georgia.
For the rest of my life, “Little Bitty” will remind me of the first week I interned at KARE 11 in Minneapolis. I shadowed reporters and videographers most workdays and enjoyed getting to know the real people behind the sport jackets, microphones and broadcast voices. I gradually began to see the anchors and reporters as real, “normal” people, but I was timid and awed at the beginning of my summer internship.
So, as you might imagine, I was taken aback when I found myself sitting in one of KARE’s white SUVs headed to a rough area of North Minneapolis to cover a new school lunch program with a sprightly female photog and a hip, Uptown reporter who decided to blare this tune and let her arms flail out the windows.
These ladies had created a mix CD with the oddest concoction of music to span decades and genres that I’d ever heard. One moment we were listening to folk-inspired hipster music and the next minute Mr. Jackson was telling us about a little bitty dish and little bitty spoon.
Just a moment ago I watched the music video because I like to verify that I’m not accidentally posting something on this blog that will make my mother blush when she reads the post. I have a question for you: What is going on with that weird-o scare crow?
In the end, it doesn’t matter how strange I think this song/video is, because Mr. Jackson managed to make a gazillion dollars all the while wearing a henley and blue jeans to work. Consider me jealous, but I’ll get over it. After all, “might as well smile, life goes on for a little bitty while.”
I returned to my old job at a golf course and banquet facility this summer as a way to make a little spending money. Over the past few years, I’ve worked dozens of weddings and last night the reception was the most beautiful one I’ve seen. It’s amazing how thousands of dollars worth of fresh flowers, brilliant white chair covers, and countless candles can transform a stark basement room adjacent to a cornfield into an awe-inspiring oasis.
Part of the reason the reception had so many candles was because the wedding favor for each guest was a votive inscribed with the names of the couple and the date. I couldn’t help but chuckled to myself when at the end of the night the best man tried stuffing his candle into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and said to another guest, “Oooo a candle! I can get all kinds of romantic with myself.”
Another thing I loved about the wedding last night was the music. The evening started out on a super-cute note when a couple in their 60s began dancing alone to Coldplay’s song Green Eyes, which was playing softly in the background before dinner was served. Green Eyes happens to be my favorite song by the quartet of Brit boys and it was amazing to to see the elderly couple sway to such mushy-gushy lyrics as “Honey you are the rock upon which I stand.”
Not all of the songs played were sappy ballads, though. Minnesotan wedding dances all seem to start with the same play list and then ad lib a bit depending on the couple or the crowd. Last night’s DJ blasted a few standard songs like, Love Shack, Twist and Shout, Thank God I’m a Country Boy, and (by request) The Beer Barrel Polka. I find it amusing that all of these oldie gems are sprinkled amongst bump-and-grind hits from the Top 100 charts. The combo works because after a few kegs of beer, the guests who would normally be appalled by the profane lyrics of modern music just seem to bop along with their circa 1950 dance moves or amuse the all-too-sober employees at McArthur’s by shakin’ their grove thang like the youngsters.
Justin Bieber is playing a show in Minneapolis tonight. How, or better yet, WHY do I know this?
Because his concert made the news on at least three shows on two different channels. According to reports, Twin Cities tweens haven’t been this excited for a show in the Minne-apple since Marky Mark and the rest of the New Kids on the Block boys bombarded our fair city.
Lord save us all.
Editors Note:
Ms. Cora Jones would like me to clarify that Marky Mark was not one of the quintessential New Kids on the Block. His brother, Donnie Wahlberg, was. Apologies folks!
The new Keane and K’NAAN hit Stop for a Minute is making me miss London way too much. I heard the song on the radio today and thought that it was dangerously catchy. As much as I try to have picky music tastes and root for the underdog, sometimes the songs pop music machines churn out get the best of me.
I just watched the music video, and I’m done for. Tom Chaplin, the front man of Keane, is a quintessential Brit boy and man do I miss those! Whenever I think of Brit boys, the satiny suits they happen to find appropriate for any occasion and their immaculate grooming skills come to mind.
The music video also begins and ends with shots of London streets that look so similar to my Earl’s Court stomping ground that I can just imagine they were a block over from the usual path I traveled between my flat and The Tube. I also love how the video presents the pub scene. My roommate Meg and I used to grab a cider at one of the four pubs on our block if we were bored. One time, we were sitting and chatting when a guy happened to stop by our table to ask, “Are you two from around here and do you know of a place to go after the pub closes?”
REALLY? No, we weren’t from around the area. In fact, you knew that from overhearing our American accents that happen to have the gravitational pull of Jupiter and before you decided you just had to speak with us. If I remember correctly, our conversation with the guy then turned to where we were from, and him calling over a friend who was waiting patiently for “the sign.” Meg and I ended up playing a game or two of snooker with them in return for a couple rounds of free drinks. After a while we told them to hit up the Mango Lounge if they wanted to keep drinking after close and that the two of us needed to start making the long trip home. A little fib never hurt anyone and those 50 feet were actually quite strenuous with the weight of billiard defeat on our shoulders.
My theme song for today is Eddy Money’s Take Me Home Tonight. It’s kind of a strange choice considering I’ll be having a wild Sunday night writing papers and eating cereal for supper. Maybe that’s the point: feel free to interupt.
