Perhaps you’ve been here: Arriving at my gate at the Atlanta airport, I’m a mix of mild emotions. The melancholy of family goodbyes. A bit wound up after the rush of TSA lines and trams. Some sadness at the impending end to my vacation, yet eager to return home and back to my life. Mostly, I’m tired. Settling into an open seat across from my gate, a song cues up on the airport sound system: the Eagles’ “Ol’ 55.” It’s perfect.
Or perhaps you’ve been here: Several months later, I’m criss-crossing Wisconsin, covering a pile of miles from Devil’s Lake to Prairie du Chien in the southwest corner of the state, then boomeranging back up to Green Bay. It’s hot. I’d done a killer bike ride through the bluffs along the Mississippi, then headed back through the heat of the August afternoon in time to hit the worst of Madison traffic. By 6 p.m. I’m wiped out and still crawling up I-41 along Lake Winnebago. I’ve had enough.
Spotting an outlet mall along the freeway in Oshkosh, I stop in to look for deals and, really, to not be in my car for a few damn minutes. After scoring a find at the shoe outlet, I’m met at the door, like a smack in the face, by the spray of a sudden downpour crossing the massive parking lot. I dash to the car to drop off my bags, and with no stomach for the highway in these conditions, sprint back to the mall, ducking into an Eddie Bauer. I’m soaked. Shivering under the hum of the A/C, I mill around the array of racks in a half-hearted pretense of shopping. I just want to be home, but the rain outside is relentless. I accept with calm resignation that for the time being, I’m going nowhere. A familiar progression of guitar chords rings through the store sound system. It takes me a few bars to pick up on it: Wilco’s “California Stars.” It’s storming outside and starting to get dark. I’ve been on the road for close to 12 hours, and I’m still at least an hour from home. I’m cold and hungry. In an Eddie Bauer. And, at least for 3 minutes, there’s no place I’d rather be.
You know this feeling. It transcends perfection. It’s a singular experience in life. The myriad, unrelated events of a day collide into one moment, like random sparks summoning a bolt of lightning. And just as quickly it’s over and you move on.
When I was young, I thought that buying a record meant buying all the joy and wonder that came with what I’d heard on the radio. I’m now more conflicted about the notion of “owning” music. If you like a song, or an album, you buy it, right? Well, I’ve come to suspect it’s a bit of a fool’s pursuit, but it hasn’t stopped me from amassing a collection of albums, CDs, and MP3s of my favorite stuff. They tend to languish in crates or gather digital dust in my iTunes library while I listen to satellite radio.
I’ve heard “Ol’ 55” a few times since last spring. Once I had my niece play it on her phone when she asked for music recommendations. It was disappointing. I didn’t hear the song again until last week, when it popped up on satellite. It wasn’t the Atlanta airport experience, but it managed to spin some of the magic, and I think I know why. It was unexpected, unsolicited. Incongruous with the prevailing currents of my day. At that moment, that particular song was the furthest thing from my mind. Yet it was something I must’ve deeply craved, like that first drink of water that makes you realize just how thirsty you are. It’s a reminder that life is best when life comes at you, dispelling our modern conceit that everything, even art, can be commodified, controlled and scheduled to serve our needs on demand. It’s true that even the best music from our most beloved artists is and should be packaged as a commercial product. That’s how they get paid. The experience of listening to it, however, isn’t part of the package. That’s up to you.
popart 