Melody Prison

Such Lovely Shackles

The prison of melody The lovely shackles of affirmation

I don’t remember what song prompted this Wolfku, what snipped of melody would not leave me alone — could be any song, for it holds true for nearly all of them.

There are many candidates, for I have loved and lived and breathed music for as long as I’ve carried even the outlines of a self-image around. In fact, it was music that tapped my shoulder and suggested the persona: I am the music I love (later to morph into: I am the music own — a little meatier, that).

And so, a little before four in the afternoon, lying in the newly cut hay-field butting up against the yard surrounding our little cottage and listening to the Swedish “Ten at the Top” (Tio i Topp) on Dad’s black Centrum, car-antenna-enabled transistor radio, when “The Night Has a Thousand Eyes” (Bobby Vee) and “Please Please Me” (The Beatles) came in at numbers one and two, or was it two and one, I knew I absolutely loved those songs. And the I who knew this, and the I who loved songs rose as my newly-found persona. The real me standing up and taking a bow. The one I wanted to be, the one I wanted others to see me as. The music-man.

A little farther down that road, looking at film clips of screaming Beatles fans, two things: first the observation: they all, to a screaming girl, were the ones who loved Paul or John or George or (heaven forbid) Ringo, that is who they were, that was the love who defined them — just like music as such to a large extent defined me then and for years to come; second: the real conundrum: in that crowd of screaming girls, all loving one of The Beatles, there is not the slightest sign or notion of jealousy. None. On paper, though, shouldn’t there be?

I love Paul.

Yes, I know, I love him too.

And so do I.

And not a jealous speck in the air.

Go figure.

That’s why they call it a conundrum.

Meanwhile, back at the melody-prison ranch. Say the opening bars of “Whiter Shade of Pale”, once it’s got a foothold, it can double down and stay for hours. Just those opening bars, and Gary Brooker sailing, wailing in with “We skipped the light fandango” and there’s nothing you can do about that. Talk about a life of its own.

At least that one’s recognizable. Other times a snipped will be the last two or three notes of some song I have loved, and probably still love, but I have no idea which song it is right now. None. And this, for me, is a recipe for crazy — especially if I decided to chase the thing, wrestle it down to the ground and force it to give up its identity. It always wins, eludes, and laughs as it does.

I have learned, perhaps belatedly, that the best way with those snippets is simply to say, go away, come back when you have a name. And, it usually does precisely that, goes away and then returns a minute, hour, day, month, year later with: here I am, and this is my name.

Yes, yes, yes, precisely. Thank you.

Here are some lovely shackles of affirmation: I think The Electric Flag was one of the best bands ever. This affirms me on so many levels: I have great taste in music, for The Electric Flag was one of the greatest bands ever.

I obviously am one who remembers them.

I obviously am one who remembers Mike Bloomfield, one of the all-time great guitarists.

I obviously am one who remembers Harvey Brooks, one of the all-time great bass players.

I am one who thrived during the 1960s, obviously, or I would not hold that band so dear.

I am one who, by the Bloomfield association, also loves Paul Butterfield’s Blues Band.

All these views, all these loves, they are shackles that affirm me, over and over, and in someone who loves the same band and music, yes, there I have a sibling, a sibling that will define us both even further.

Truly, we were born identity-less, persona-less. By the time we hit the teens, we have had to come up with something — I came up with music, not very original, I know, but very, very workable.

Lovely shackles indeed.

© Wolfstuff