He was tall and gangly with a mophead of hair, and I loved him more than anything I had ever come across in my young life. He loved Led Zeppelin, Journey, and The Who. He hated The Eagles. Is it any wonder why we got along? We laughed and played for quite a while before the “irreconcilable differences” happened, or whatever you wish to call them. He played guitar, and, well, I was me: the music helped to give us something in common. Still, for as often as we interacted in numerous settings, we never had “a song.” Two people who loved music, yet we never once connected a piece of music to our relationship.
Another kid, he played guitar, too. He introduced me to Blind Melon, a band I had previously despised thanks to the “bee girl” and too much hippie mentality. Of course, he also really liked Ugly Kid Joe and several other less-than-elite bands as well that we didn’t agree upon, but that’s the nature of two people interacting. I attempted to toss Dream Theater his way, as I do to pretty much everyone I become close with on any sort of level, and it definitely wasn’t his bag. But as for the two of us? Memories of us together were not connected to anything musical. The closest we may have come might be “Mouthful of Cavities,” but that’s not a song for a couple. Perhaps for a couple of depressed people, but not for a couple in love. That may as well define what we had.
Yet, all through my childhood, it seemed like my slightly-older female relatives would gush over the boys they looooooved, and they always had “a song.” Clearly, these seemed to be whichever drippy ballad was popular or on the radio at the moment, for the most part. Sometimes, the popular sap songs really weren’t about love, which somewhat makes the situation comical. Other times, the songs chosen were enough to cock my head to the side like a confused puppy, like Jermaine Jackson’s “We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off.” Perhaps I’m just lost; I suppose that could be some sort of gushy love anthem for the Catholic set. Now that I think about it, my one cousin did attend a parochial school.
Still, another guy I saw for a short time, our connection to music was odd at best. He was very into Erasure, New Order, and Depeche Mode, which really should have tipped me off that our relationship wasn’t going to be traditional in any sense. I had just begun to fall in love with Depeche Mode, so the others were a discovery for me at the time. However, we argued over who made “R.O.C.K. In the U.S.A.” (which is clearly a John Cougar Mellencamp tune, but he refused to accept this) and other obvious trivia which should have doubly tipped me off that this cat was trouble. In the end, no, it didn’t work out, not by a long shot. Still, during the times we had, discussing and sharing music, together? Nothing ever defined us. In retrospect, I am wont to apply “Scrubs” by TLC, but that’s neither here nor there.
Someone else? We had love for the Pink Floyd, baby. He was also into Tool, Type O Negative, and a few other of the requisite bands for angry youth at that time. We agreed on the excellence that is Animals, although my heart remains tied to Wish You Were Here. In fact, I think I tried in vain to apply the title track of that song to us as a couple, but it simply wasn’t to be. Come to think of it, really, music seemed to be an excuse for him to keep my interest. He was a loser, baby, so why don’t you kill me?
Yet there was a woman I worked with around that time who would call her husband every time the radio would kick out “Dream Weaver.” She skirted around their sweet story of how the song became connected to their relationship, but I don’t recall it now. What always entranced me was that the radio station had a nearly identical and repetitive playlist each week; at work, at 9am, the song played every Sunday for weeks on end. And every week, every time it played, she would pick up the phone to call and sweetly say, “Guess what song is playing?” and twist the cord around her finger like a junior high girl.
In the meantime, the songs that I connect with my past relationships include Liz Phair’s “Divorce Song” and “Fuck and Run,” Dream Theater’s “Space-Dye Vest,” and countless other intellectual discourses about love dying and its emotional domino effect. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not bitter that all of these relationships are dead and gone; on the contrary, I ended many myself and have no regrets about anything I had done to cause my own butt to be kicked to the curb. It’s just that I seem to find more solace in songs which resolve my emotional breakdown rather than finding songs which compliment the happier times. It makes me look like a cynical, bitter beast. Yet, in none of my relationships did we ever have “a song.” How else is it going to look?
The next in line, he and I weren’t connected by music. I remember making him a mix tape, and I remember him listening to it in his car. Beyond that, it wasn’t a point on which we connected. That alone should have spelled disaster. We both liked Garbage, though; but I think we both wanted to hunt down Shirley Manson for nasty deeds rather than appreciate the music.
It continues on that way. The musical dealings I had with this other guy ranged primarily from Faith No More to The Kids of Widney High, with a smattering of Olsen Twins songs thrown in here and there. Oh yes, and a touch of cheesy black metal. It was something along those lines, I believe. Needless to say, the music variety complimented the fun we had together, but didn’t run much deeper.
At this point, I think I completely gave up on the concept of having a song together as much as being able to define people by a song as an individual. I found the songs that I felt defined me as a human being, and I sought others who had felt these sentiments about themselves. I was lucky enough to find someone that passionate about music in my last relationship. While there’s no emptiness left there in realizing that both of us knew exactly who we were and could put lyrics and a tune to it, what defined what we had together?
Perhaps it’s all trivial in the long run, but even after two years, we never had a song to call our own. Maybe it’s due to being metalheads, which sort of narrows the field of qualifying candidates. I mean, while we both sang Slayer’s “Seasons In The Abyss” in karaoke together, I wouldn’t exactly call it a song which defines a couple in love. Certainly, it’s not that we didn’t know each other; it’s just that it never came up. At no point during our long run did we ever have a moment shared which glued memories of our feelings for each other to a song. Considering the people involved, it seems to be a critical error.
While this all seems rather nonsensical, it isn’t to me; for people such as myself whose lives are entirely wrapped up in the world of music, it should make sense that moments and feelings are best represented when tied to a song. No, none of this keeps me up at night or makes me feel like I have failed in some way. Instead, it just seems rather sad. How could I not have tied the foremost person in my life with my foremost artistic love? At one point or another, each of these people touched my heart in some way that music has. So why did they never mesh?
My parents, I don’t think they had a song. They went and saw Queen in concert as part of their honeymoon, and my sister was named after a Van Halen song, but I don’t recall ever being told even what they danced to at their wedding reception. I do remember being told of an incident that involved Jefferson Starship’s “Miracles,” but I won’t recount that for my entire readership. I don’t even like having it in my own brain.
Even my best friend and I could likely say that we have a song: Madonna’s “Like A Virgin.” Aside from her hilarious karaoke rendition, we took quite a roadtrip to see Madonna in concert and worship her ridiculously, and probably have far too many moments which we can connect to the tune. We could probably claim a Poison song, too, for similar reasons. Maybe “Book of Love” or “God Bless America,” but now we’re getting too deep into shenanigans. She’s not even a music-obsessive like yours truly. However, we share these moments and these songs as if they were stapled to our foreheads, and that’s just as friends.
I suppose it will happen at the right moment with the right person. It’s just rather disconcerting to say that up through this point in my life, there hasn’t been that moment.
The old days are gone and they’re better left alone,
–gloomchen
