Before I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be Madonna. The neighbor girls, my sister Rachel and myself divided up all the songs on “True Blue”, turned it up loud via my boombox and strutted around my parents front porch performing our idol’s hits. People joke that they are glad social media didn’t exist back in the day but I would give up my Juice Newton album to see myself lip-syncing to “Papa Don’t Preach” now. I have no shame. I was good.
I’m listening to music while I write this ode TO music. (“Jealousy” by Natalie Merchant just started) I rarely do anything without music. I make dinner, fold laundry, clean Sam the Guinea Pig’s cage etc etc etc with something I can sing to. (oh now, “Sweet Jane”, Cowboy Junkies-you could take a hot bath in Margo’s voice) I know my dishes get cleaner when I can sway to Miss Winehouse’s soulful crooning.
I grew up surrounded by music. It was a staple in the Seiter house, like Sundrop and Busch beer. Saturday afternoons were for dusting the living room and Stevie Nicks. My Mom is 6 feet tall but when you’re 8 that might as well be 12 feet. When she would shake her hips to “Stand Back” or “Edge of Seventeen” I was sure those songs were written for her. (oh my heart…Tori Amos just started…”Little Earthquakes”, sing it Tori)
About 13 years ago I somehow acquired a Morphine mix tape. A three member band mainly consisting of bass, sax and guitar. The singer, Marc Sandman had a voice as heavy as that bass but it still managed to float above all the murky lyrics of self-loathing and lost loves and french fries with pepper. From that magical mix tape my first real story, “The Angel of Death Story” was born. It mirrored a lot of what I heard in the pain and humor of those songs. I will forever link my main character, Jack Stewart and his story with those melodies and lyrics. (another Natalie…”King of May”, a homage to Mr. Ginsburg)
I worked at a music store in Washington a gazillion years ago. It was an amazing job because it was a constant education. It was hanging out, listening to music and discovering all kinds of new stuff. I learned about Holly Golightly, (I’ve got a playlist with selections from “Painted On”), Concrete Blonde (no one sings about vampires like Johnette Napolitano) and The Palace Brothers. I mention one of their songs in one of my poems. I associate that song with a drive back from the city with a good friend. I sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed while I soaked in Bonnie Prince Billy’s voice full of crackle and longing. (speaking of Holly…”Devil Do”, a toe tapper, check out the video, perfect for Halloween)
Music is so multifaceted for me. She’s a comfort, a motivator and a source of inspiration. She’s a memory maker. I dance barefoot in the kitchen to praise her and she makes me cry when something hits just right. She is magical and something to be revered. She’s nothing I want to understand beyond what she makes me feel and lets me see. I wait for her. She’s my most prized Muse.
Silver Frog Productions 