Tracy Chapman - Fast Car

My family life has been jarring at its worst and cautious at its best. My mother had me at twenty-six...not a bad age to have a child. She wasn't the kind who got pregnant at sixteen by some boy she had to marry, as many of my relatives have. Does that mean she was any more ready for me? Not exactly. I was kind of a surprise to both her and my birth father--which cumulated in him leaving her and my grandparents half-raising me until my father came along. They were married when I was two, and I was promptly adopted shortly afterwards.

There was trouble in their marriage. My mother suffered from many personality disorders and mental imbalances, but my father remained patient and cared for her for ten years. She would wind up in the state hospital, and my grandparents would step in and sometimes have me for weeks on end while my father worked and spent hours in a waiting room that I remember smelling funny and being that horribly awkward shade of hospital green. But there still would be family dinners when she was home, chores had to be done, and we would go out and pretend to be fairly normal.

When I was twelve and in the seventh grade, I got it in my head that I would try to coax athleticism into my lanky body. I was already five-four in height, which at the time was pretty tall for a girl, and pretty strong and healthy. That's where it ended--I was all arms and legs at the time, clumsy, uncoordinated, and unmotivated. Still, I pushed myself through a grueling week of volleyball drills and running (something VERY new to me), learning to respond to the coaches that barked commands at me to bump, set, and spike. This was all to no avail--at the end of the week, I found out I'd made the intramural team. Hooray.

Disappointed and exhausted (and probably smelling pretty funny), I walked towards the waiting silver Buick in the parking lot. My dad greeted me with "Well, your mother's in jail." Needless to say, tact has never been his strong point. I blinked a couple times. "Oh, okay," I said matter-of-factly. Needless to say, unflappability has always been my strong point. I patiently listened as he went over the sordid details. "I guess we'll probably be getting a divorce," he said, ending with an uncertain tone. I shrugged it off, and we were quiet for a bit.

"I didn't make the volleyball team," I said, almost as an afterthought.

The fall semester of my seventh grade year was a bit odd. My father had placed a restraining order on my mother, so I was unable to speak to or see her for ninety days. I was handled with kid gloves at my middle school. I spoke to police officers, counselors, teachers, principals, psychiatrists, and social workers with calmness and clarity--no tears or screams that one might expect from a girl going through this and puberty at the same unfortunate time. But I was unfazed. I went to school, I played in the band, I went to volleyball practice, I spent the night at friends' houses, and did all the normal things girls did at that age. I laughed, I smiled like normal. That, I think, shocked everyone the most.

My dad and I spent hours in the car, driving to see lawyers and friends and go to ice cream shops and dinner in restaurants. Anything, I think, to keep him distracted. Driving was therapeutic for him, and cars rides have always been soothing to me. Even today, I'll take long drives to calm my nerves or to get a good cry out. Things were okay in the car .

I remember when we were driving, driving in your car

Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk

City lights lay out before us and your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder

And I had a feeling that I belonged

I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone

I heard that song countless times on car radios, whether it was with boys or friends or even when I begged my dad not to change the station, offering the same excuse that I give for so many songs. "Wait wait wait! I LOVE this song!" It fit everything, every situation of my life. If all else failed, I got in a car with someone.

My relationship with my dad got worse, ultimately reaching a point where I had to leave the house I had haphazardly grown up in. One night, I found myself riding in yet another fast car--I had made my decision. The last verse of the song now hit me all too hard for comfort, and now I'll sit quietly when the song comes on the radio. No longer do I beg for the station not to be changed. Now I feel like that soft contralto voice is almost too like my own.

I'd always hoped for better

Thought maybe together you and me'd find it

You got no plans, you ain't goin' nowhere

So take your fast car and keep on drivin'

You got a fast car

But is it fast enough you can fly away?

You gotta make a decision

Leave tonight or live and die this way.

Less Than Jake - All My Best Friends Are Metalheads

I was thirteen and a half at best, and starting to really figure out who I might possibly want to be. I had two best friends, and we were rarely apart. I was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm all the time, and still unsure of how to wear girly clothing or makeup or fix my hair. And, most importantly, I was head over heels in love with my first serious boyfriend.

He was sixteen or seventeen. I have no clue why my father didn't throw a fit at me dating a boy who was much, much older than me, but in retrospect, I'm glad he didn't. He was tall, with a flop of dark brown hair, glasses, and very light blue eyes. He had the charm of a puppy dog, and was just as geeky and socially awkward as I was. He lived almost four hours away, but came to visit family and friends often, and we were ALWAYS in contact. Either we were on the phone, or texting, or instant messaging til incredibly late at night. It was a wonderfully blissful time in my life.

He was the first to introduce me to ska music, giving me a mix CD that he had made. To this day, I consider that custom to be the most intimate exchange in a relationship. I had been playing trombone for a couple years now through my school's band program, but didn't really see it as anything special. All of a sudden, I heard my horn in a whole new light. I heard it mashed in with the guitars and drum sets that I was already accustomed to hearing in pop music, and I heard it soaring above them to capture the listener's focus. I was hooked.

Soon, I saved up my allowance and bought my own, brand-new copy of Less Than Jake's album Hello Rockview. As soon as that CD came in contact with my stereo, I played it constantly for weeks on end, until I bought their newest album, Anthem. The raucous music must've driven my father nuts, but I was enthralled with every upbeat and trombone solo.

I think it was the third track on the album, "All My Best Friends Are Metalheads" that caught me the fastest. I didn't care about the lyrics. They didn't make sense to me then, and still only vaguely string together now. The energy was what got me. I couldn't help but be absolutely ecstatic when it came on. At the song's climax came a trombone soli (which upon closer listening appears to also be backed by a bari sax) that drove me wild. It's nothing especially complex or show-boat-y, but it fit the song and the mood perfectly. I spent hours in a practice room over my high school career, trying to figure that solo part out. I still haven't.

Most people have a sappy song behind their very first boyfriend, but I have ska music--now a common love between me and my current boyfriend. Hello Rockview always will sound like the thrills of first love to me, and will always play at times when I don't know how to be anything but happy.

Start!

I need a new project to do, despite the wonderful lack of free time I have. I also need to not forget how to write.

I'm 20 years old, and a music education major at a school that isn't prestigious or large, which makes me like it that much more every time I show up for classes. I've spent the majority of my life with some sort of music in the background, and have always been able to set up a soundtrack to any situation. Some wish life were a musical, I'd prefer it to be a music video.

I listen to anything. Sometimes a song will wind up being significant not because of the musical structure, but more because of the situation it's being played in. So, trashy pop songs can matter in someone's life just as much as say, a symphonic poem. What defines one's iTunes library should not be the artistic merit of the performers or composers in it, but what memories they have with that song. I have a story or a reasoning for every song in my library - rarely are they in there just because I like them. That's not enough for me. They need a mood, a feeling. They need to be able to bring me back to that moment I first heard them.

So, here goes my attempt to relay all those emotions, memories, and stories.