Tag Archives: mixtape

Review:  All Things Must Pass (Documentary)

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 “All Things Must Pass” is a documentary that covers the rise and fall of Tower Records during the second half of the 20th century and the first few years of the 21st.  What I love about the documentary is the fact that I experienced a lot of changes that took place in the record industry, particularly in the record stores, during those years.  As a businesswoman, I loved the discussion surrounding the birth and death of Tower Records’ business model.  At the end of the documentary, I left thinking what a great case study it would make.

I can just imagine the beginnings.  Supposedly Tower Records started as Tower Drugs.  After World War II, leading into the 1950s, Tower Drugs began carrying 45s in an effort to tempt their teenage customers hanging out at the soda fountain.  As the granddaughter and great-granddaughter of entrepreneurs who owned a pharmacy in Marshall, Michigan during this same time period, I can picture it.

In fact, my maternal grandparents met at Peck’s Drugstore in Marshall.  My grandfather’s parents were partners in the business, and at the time, before graduating from high school and enlisting in the US Navy during World War II, Grandpa worked there as a soda jerk.  Grandma, who attended then nearby Marshall High School, loved their lemon Cokes.  I’ve visited Marshall and located the corner where Peck Drugs once stood.  Marshall Junior High School, once Marshall High School, is located right across the street.  Even though my grandparents were gone by that time, I could easily envision the circumstances under which they met.

This burgeoning teenage culture in the 40s and 50s led to rock and roll and the astronomical growth of the record industry from the 40s through the end of the century.  I happen to be just old enough to have witnessed the heights of the 1980s, the changes experienced all throughout the 1990s, and the chaos that followed in the first decade of the 21st century.

I lived it.  Madonna and Michael Jackson’s reign as Queen and King of pop were a huge part of my childhood, as were Tina Turner, Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, Wilson Phillips, Paula Abdoul, and so many others.  As grunge exploded in the 1990s, the music industry fractured in the wake of Kurt Cobain’s death and the advent of the internet.  The music industry wasn’t nearly as tightly controlled as it once was and formats were changing yet again.

As a teenager, I understood the frustration.  During the early part of my childhood, vinyl and cassette tapes dominated.  Before long, CDs took over.  WIth each new format, some felt the need to repurchase their music collection yet again.  However, by the late 90s, people had had enough.  During that time, I remember the anger that the equivalent of the 45 didn’t really exist in the CD format.  You might be able to purchase singles, but they were never the hit songs.  In essence, the record industry reached a point where they were pricing teenagers out of the market.  Full CD albums during that time period usually ranged from $15-$20, depending on the artist and popularity.  Today, I spend $8.99 a month for Amazon Music, which includes electronic access to whatever is available via Amazon Music – i.e. pretty much anything and everything.

The sad thing is that rural teenagers in the 90s, like me, mostly had access to the big box music retailers of the time, such as the behemoth Tower Records – or the CD clubs of the era, Columbia House and BMG Music.  Oh, how I wished there were used record stores near me!  When I arrived on campus at Michigan State in 1999, my friends and I made regular visits to The Wazoo, a mom and pop used record/CD store run by an old hippie who truly loved music, or WhereHouse Records, another great used music store.  We could get an entire pile of albums for the price of one new release.

This atmosphere and the business model became a recipe for disaster.  Enter the file sharing frenzy that took place in the early aughts.  Napster and Limewire were king at this time.  Why purchase music at all when you could download your favorite songs for free from a friend of a friend of a friend?  While it wasn’t that simple – mislabeling ran rampant and download times could be excessive – it worked well enough.  If anyone had actually been prosecuted for downloading music illegally, our judicial justice system would have quickly collapsed.  Colleges, universities, and even many high schools would have been empty with students rotting in jail instead of receiving an education.  That may be hyperbole, but not by much.

In the end, it could not last.  Businesses such as Tower Records, so heavily dependent upon real estate and inventory, could not survive once people refused to repurchase their music collection yet again, pay full price for CD albums with only a handful of well-known songs (if lucky), downloaded whatever pirated music they wished via Napster and LimeWire.  The electronic music market, now dominated by Amazon and Spotify, had not yet come into its own.  Today, Tower Records lives on in Japan, a testament to its homegrown slogan – “No Music.  No Life.”

“All Things Must Pass” is entertaining if you are interested in music and the history of the music business at all.  It brought back a lot of memories for me, and frankly, I feel for teens today who do not have the experience of spending time in stores dedicated solely to music.  Creating a Spotify or Amazon Music playlist just isn’t the same.  The title “All Things Must Pass” comes from the sign a former Tower Records employee put on their sign as their original store was closing.  “All Things Must Pass … Thanks Sacramento.”  It is, of course, also the name of George Harrison’s triple solo album and hit, “All Things Must Pass.”

Gordon Lightfoot – The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (1976)

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Gordon Lightfoot – The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (1976) (Video) (Lyrics)

(Written May 7, 2023)

“The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down

Of the big lake they called ‘Gitche Gumee’ …” (Gordon Lightfoot 1976)

There is probably no more iconic opening lyric in modern music history.  Sadly, Gordon Lightfoot died on May 1st, 2023 at age 84.  In capturing the story of the tragedy of the Edmund Fitzgerald in song, he immortalized the iron ore carrier, its crew, and its disputed demise for generations to come.  In a sense, it has become an elegy for all those lost on the Great Lakes over the centuries.

Growing up in Michigan throughout the 1980s and 1990s, we learned about the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald through Lightfoot’s lyrics.  Personally, I’ve been fascinated ever since.  It is easy to see why so many are still drawn to the story.  First, it is a fairly “modern” shipwreck.  The Fitzgerald sank on Lake Superior on November 10, 1975.  They had enough lifeboats, modern radar, and radio communication.  In fact, Captain McSorley’s last radio communication with a nearby ship, the Arthur M. Anderson, was “we are holding our own.”  That chilling fact alone sends my imagination reeling.

Next, there are lingering questions as to exactly how the Edmund Fitzgerald sank.  Some say that she ran aground on SIx Fathoms Shoal, while others believe that the hatchways were not properly secured.  Then, there are those who believe one of the Three SIsters – a reference to gigantic waves developing on Lake Superior in the wake of incredible fall storms – doomed the ship.

In fact, the subject of the Edmund Fitzgerald still garners a lot of local interest in Michigan.  In September 2022, former reporter and Edmund Fitzgerald researcher Ric Mixter presented information on the wreck at the old court house in Omer.  I happened to attend his presentation, and for such a small community, there was standing room only.  Ric Mixter, a former reporter for local WNEM TV5, went on to present in Bay City and other nearby communities as well.  What’s great about his presentation is the depth of his research, his respect for those who died in the tragedy, and his obvious love for the subject matter.  He lets his audience decide for themselves the ultimate cause of the wreck.  After I attended Ric Mixter’s presentation, I compiled some of his resources in the post All Things Michigan.

Finally, Gordon Lightfoot’s master songwriting draws one into the tragedy.  WIth lyrics like “ice water mansion” and “Does anyone know where the love of God goes, When the waves turn the minutes to hours?,” it becomes a timeless folk song dedicated to the power of the Great Lakes.  By telling the story in a basic timeline format, he immortalizes the old cook and Captain McSorley, along with the rest of the crew, for all time.  I can’t think of a better tribute to the 29 men that lost their lives that fateful November day.  It is one of the most haunting songs I’ve ever heard and fully deserves its rightful place in the history of timeless American folk songs.

Review: Madonna 40

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On Friday evening March 31st, 2023, I joined scores of others to attend “Madonna 40” at the Delta College Planetarium.  A sold out show, it was incredible – and a lot of fun!  Designed to honor Madonna’s 40th anniversary of her first hit single “Holiday” and her always controversial place in Bay City history, it did not disappoint.  My only wish: I would have thoroughly enjoyed another hour of her classic music videos and would have gladly paid accordingly.  There is nothing quite like watching the music videos that made Madonna a superstar and an inspiration to a generation of girls and women, for better or worse, on the big screen.  It is an experience I will never forget. Her early music will always be a part of the soundtrack to my early childhood memories.  In designing the program, the following original, unedited music videos were shown in all of their ‘80s and early ‘90s glory:

A still from arguably Madonna’s most iconic music video, Material Girl (1984).

Frankly, the music video portion of the program outshone everything else.  The videos have held up over nearly four decades.  What struck me most in the vintage videos was Madonna herself.  Definitely not model thin or “fat,” she exuded old-school glamor in “Material Girl,” “Vogue,” and “Like A Prayer” with the dance moves that made her famous.  As for “Papa Don’t Preach,” she looks like any fresh-faced midwestern high school or college girl.

Personally, I felt that the organizers/designers missed a huge opportunity by not including at least the videos for both “Promise to Try” (1989), which was largely filmed at her mother’s gravesite in Kawkawlin, Michigan (just north of Bay City), and “This Used to Be My Playground” (1992), which was included on the A League of Their Own soundtrack and supposedly written about Bay City becoming her refuge after her mother’s untimely death.  The only actual footage of Madonna in or near Bay City was not included in the program.  How?

The next segment of the program, “Smelly Little Town,” is originally why I wanted to attend the event and even moved around my schedule to do so.  Debuting as part of the Hell’s Half Mile Film and Music Festival in Bay City in 2021, I doubted I would ever have another opportunity to see it.  Growing up with the controversy, knowing Bay City a little too well, and having been born in Bay City myself, I had to check it out.

First and foremost, it is quite possibly the most Bay City thing I’ve ever seen in my life.  Let me just say this:  It began and ended with scenes of people polka dancing at the St. Stan’s Polish festival to the Steve Drzewicki Band, both Bay City institutions.  I half expected to see my ex’s parents go dancing on by.  In general, the film did a decent job describing Bay City, covering all aspects of the “smelly little town” controversy with Madonna, and explaining how ever-corrupt Bay City small town politics is the answer as to why Bay City has never really been able to capitalize on the fact that it is the birthplace of Madonna.

This mural in downtown Bay City was privately funded and tucked away on a small side street.

For those who don’t know, Madonna Louise Ciccone was born at the former Mercy Hospital in Bay City, Michigan on August 16th, 1958.  Madonna is her actual given name as she was named after her mother.  Upon her mother’s tragic death in 1963, Madonna spent time in Bay City with her grandmother, who lived in the Banks area, then home to a nearby oil refinery (hence the “smelly little town” comment that caused such an uproar).  To this day, there is very little commemorating Madonna in Bay City.  Then again, this is the same city that passed on becoming home to a casino and a minor league ballpark, both of which went to nearby communities.

If something wonderful is planning on coming to Bay City, one can be sure that public outrage will ensue in some way, shape, or form.  I am speaking from experience.  When I moved back to Michigan with my ex, a Bay City native, in 2005, the controversy over the then new Wirt Public Library – a gorgeous new anchor for downtown Bay City – had yet to wane.  While I agree it doesn’t have the history of the historic Sage Library in Bay City, people were genuinely upset over a beautiful new library downtown.  I will never understand the mentality.

Then again, back in 2005, Michigan experienced a one-state recession which was about to turn into the Great Recession.  2008 is covered well in the documentary.  It is rightfully called one of the darkest times in Bay City history, and frankly, I consider my life in Bay City (2005-2012) one of the darkest periods in my life as well.  Yet, while Bay City is almost unrecognizable from that dark hour, there is still nothing formal honoring Madonna in the city.

As much as I wanted to see “Smelly Little Town,” I doubt it would have been half as entertaining if not for my own experiences with Bay City and my early love of Madonna’s music.  In fact, much of it is forgettable.  However, it did a good job highlighting the ridiculousness of the entire situation and Bay City politics.  I actually understand the controversy now.  A little explanation and context behind Madonna’s comments would have changed everything.  In the same infamous 1985 interview with Jane Pauly, Madonna goes on to say that she has “great affection” for Bay City.

By the way, Bay City still is a “smelly little town.”  In a hilarious coincidence, I happened to drive by the Michigan Sugar plant on Friday on my way to see “Madonna 40.”  For those who don’t know, processing sugar beets can smell like hot garbage on a good day.  Friday, as I drove by, it never smelled worse.

Clearly, Madonna’s relationship with Bay City remains complicated.  I fully understand why.  My love/hate relationship with Madonna – I will always love Madonna’s music, but question her methods of self-promotion – mirrors my love/hate relationship with Bay City itself.  I do hope that she is commemorated in Bay City at some point.  Not every small town can claim to be the birthplace of the best-selling female musical artist of all time.

By the way, if you want a quick, accurate outline of Madonna’s complex history with Bay City, the article below does a wonderful job of doing just that.

‘The Madonna Controversy’: Five facts about Bay City’s Material Girl you may not have known

Book Review:  Storyteller by Dave Grohl (Audiobook)

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I admit, it took me a little longer than usual to get through Storyteller:  Stories of Life and Music by Dave Grohl, but it certainly didn’t disappoint.  It is one of the best memoirs I’ve read.  Considering his current stature in the world of pop rock/alternative, whatever you want to call it, as a drummer, his humble nature shines through.  It all started with his pure love of pop rock, namely the Beatles, moving on to the punk scene of the late 70s and early 80s, and making it big with Nirvana and grunge.  Today, it seems as though Dave Grohl has settled in as drummer and girl dad extraordinaire.  If planning on reading the book, I highly recommend the audiobook version as he reads his own memoir.  There is nothing quite like hearing about Nirvana’s early days and the danger of their exploding fan base from the drummer himself.  Then there are the well-placed expletives in his internal monologue as he meets his musical heroes and juggles world tours with daddy-daughter dances and musical projects with Joan Jett.

There is so much that stands out that it is hard to know where to even begin.  First, the unwavering support of his teacher mother is undoubtedly one of several keys to his success.  She supported – or put with – his love of music and his decision to drop out of high school in order to tour the United States with a band.  Dave’s description of his discovery of punk rock at the hands of a formerly “preppy” family friend is memorable, as is his realization that she was in a punk band herself.  It sets the stage for what is to come.

His description of his life between dropping out of high school and eventually joining Nirvana is as hazy and transient as his life at that time.  It’s great and easy to imagine.  Opportunities to fill in and drum with his idols Iggy Pop and Tom Petty standout as it is clear that Dave was as star-struck as can be at the time.

Frankly, the section in Seattle with Nirvana is just sad as we all know how it ended.  Dave’s descriptions of Nirvana’s meteoric rise to infamy is gut-wrenching to read and full of danger.  He describes in spectacular detail playing venues far too small for how big Nirvana had grown in such a short amount of time thanks to MTV and “Smells like Teen Spirit.”  After Kurt Cobain’s death, Dave understandably took some time to process everything and ground himself once again.

Given the timeline, it appears that Dave developed Foo Fighters and started his family at roughly the same time, both growing together.  For me, the best part of the book involves Dave’s descriptions of juggling life with his three daughters and superstardom.  Stories involve things such as Paul McCartney giving his eldest daughter her first piano lesson and Joan Jett reading his daughters bedtime stories.

The Joan Jett story is one of my favorites.  It starts with Dave in the Barbie aisle helping his daughters pick out a doll and coming across a Joan Jett doll.  His girls didn’t realize that Joan Jett was a real person.  Soon, Joan herself was over to their house working on some musical project with Dave, when his oldest daughter asked her if she would read them a bedtime story.  She did .. in her pjs.

Then there is the story of the daddy-daughter dance.  It involves a whirlwind trip to Australia and back to make the dance, the Australian tour itself, and a horrific bout of food poisoning.  Yet, he made it and didn’t break his little girls’ hearts.

Above all, it is a series of stories about following your dreams, hard work, fame (or infamy), family, and music.  Dave’s descriptions of conversations with his dad are touching in the end.  In the beginning, it seemed as though Dave hated his dad due to his conservative politics and his parents’ divorce.  While much of Dave’s relationship with his dad remained complicated prior to his fame, it does seem as though they made up in the years before his father passed away.  It also appears that Dave took his dad’s financial and career advice.

While I didn’t outline it here, there are plenty of rock star stories from the road in the book as well.  They are just as good.  Dave appears to have found a balance between his career and family both in the memoir and in real life.  If you love music at all or just enjoy memoir, check it out.

Paul McCartney and Wings – Give Ireland Back to the Irish (1971)

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Picture used as the album cover of Wildlife (1971), Wings’ first album. Photo Credit: Barry Lategan

Paul McCartney and Wings – Give Ireland Back to the Irish (1971) (Video) (Lyrics)

(Written March 19, 2023)

Paul McCartney never disappoints, and “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” can be considered a perfect demonstration of the breadth and depth of his talents.  This past winter, December 2022 to be exact, The 7” Single Box Set hit stores.  This monster encompasses 80 seven-inch vinyl singles dating from his Wings and solo careers, spanning over 50 years of musical history (1971-2022).  Easily retailing for hundreds of dollars, the idea works as vinyl continues to come roaring back thanks to collectors and the lack of a better medium.  What could be better than listening to music the way it was originally intended?  As I have no vinyl collection and my days of collecting physical music (my CD collection in the 90s, early 00s) are long over, it never occurred to me to find the collection digitally.  Fortunately, that is precisely what I did, and for that, I am grateful.  “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” shines in the collection as the gem it is.

Rediscovering my favorite Wings hits, along with Paul McCartney’s extensive back catalog of solo work, made listening to The 7” Single Box Set a guilty pleasure.  “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” definitely caught my attention.  First, I had forgotten how much I love the song.  It also hit me how easy it is to forget that Paul McCartney can actually rock all on his own, silly love songs aside.  I still consider it among the best protest songs of all time.

Then there is the significance of the song.  Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I devoured the news daily.  I learned about “the Troubles” at a young age, and it is still something I will never understand.  Hatred between Catholics and Protestants?  It didn’t make sense.  Differences of opinion and belief?  Yes.  Hatred?  No.  It went against not only everything I had experienced as a child in my daily life, it also went against everything I had been taught to believe.

First, my father’s extended family is roughly half Catholic and half various Protestant denominations.  While my family and I belong to the Methodist church, my paternal first cousins were raised in the Catholic Church.  As a toddler, I attended cousin Nicole’s first Communion.  When my Russell grandparents married in 1943, my Protestant great grandmother, Dad’s Grandma Russell, supposedly didn’t originally like the idea of her youngest son marrying a Catholic.

Next, Standish, Michigan, the site of my entire K-12 education, is largely Catholic.  I spent my early childhood watching my classmates attend Catechism on Wednesday evenings.  My Catholic classmates knew my beloved Joyce – my neighbor, babysitter extraordinaire, and adopted grandmother – from 3rd grade Catechism as she taught Catechism for nearly three decades.  I watched in envy that spring as the Catholic girls dressed up as miniature brides to make their first Communion.  Later, as an adult, Mom shared with me that she’d felt the same way watching her Catholic best friends make their first Communions decades before.

Finally, our neighbors were Catholic.  Not only were they Catholic, they were the most devote Catholics I’ve ever known.  It is no secret that my brother, sister, and I adored Joyce and Carl.  On Saturday afternoons, Joyce could often be found ironing all of the linens about to be used in Mass later that evening.  Earlier in my childhood, my parents actually used to go out from time to time on Saturday evenings.  Joyce could babysit, but there was one catch: my sister Erica and I would be attending Mass with her family, as would our brother Garrett years later.

Much to my Methodist grandmother’s amusement, her Catholic friends would comment on seeing my sister and I, dressed up and on our best behavior, in Mass with Joyce and her family, looking cherubic.  Erica and I may have attended the local Catholic church more than our Methodist church in our earliest years.  Those Saturday evenings are among some of my best memories of time spent with Joyce, Carl, Karla, and Joelle.

Even as a young child, I recognized the cognitive dissonance required for me to hate Catholics.  It would have meant hating many of the very people closest to me throughout my childhood – friends, family, teachers, etc. – solely based on religion.  Considering my paternal grandmother’s Ukrainian/Polish heritage, it would almost demand some level of self-hatred.  I will never even begin to understand.

Supposedly Paul McCartney’s family was a mixture of Catholic and Protestant as well, which would explain “Give Ireland Back to the Irish.”  Even given his level of fame, the song took a certain amount of courage to write and record, particularly in the aftermath of the Beatles and the formation of Wings.  The lyrics say it all:

Great Britain you are tremendous

And nobody knows like me

But really what are you doin’

In the land across the sea?

Lyrics:  Paul McCartney/Linda McCartney

The Corrs – Runaway (1995)

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The Corrs – Runaway (1995) (Official Video) (Lyrics)

(Written March 17, 2023)

It seemed appropriate to share a beautiful song by an Irish band on St. Patrick’s Day.  I fell in love with the entire album when it first came out, even though it wasn’t exactly the music I was into at the time.  It certainly has held up.

I hope to revisit Ireland one day.  I only spent a long weekend in Dublin while studying abroad in the United Kingdom, and yet, it left a deep impression on me.  I have yet to travel anywhere where I felt so at home.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!  More to come on Ireland in the week ahead.

Morcheeba – Rome Wasn’ t Built in a Day (2000)

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Morcheeba – Rome Wasn’ t Built in a Day (2000) (Official Video) (Lyrics)

(Written March 6, 2023)

I wish I could convey to today’s teenagers and young adults how much freedom we had in the late 1990s/pre-September 11th, 2001.  I consider myself fortunate to have grown up just enough to enjoy all that that time period had to offer.  Those years, roughly 1996-2001, still loom large in my life.  What a soundtrack I could create for that time!  Morcheba’s Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day would feature front and center.  It is upbeat, optimistic, and fun in a way that is sorely missing today.  The video is infectious and fits the song perfectly.

I don’t remember exactly when I first heard the song, but it will always remind me of my summer in London.  My freshman year at Michigan State, I had no doubt that I’d study abroad.  The only questions that remained were:  when, where, how, and why.  I settled into life at Michigan State with my mom’s experience studying abroad in the United Kingdom in the ‘70s firmly in the back of my mind, oblivious to the profound impact it would all have on my life.

From all the stories I grew up with, I could tell that studying abroad loomed large in my mom’s college experience.  It’s clear that she loved every minute of it.  Interestingly, I’m not sure if it would’ve happened without my dad.  When my mom wanted to marry my dad before graduating from Central Michigan University, my grandparents handled it brilliantly.  They suggested that she study abroad before she married.  I don’t know if she would have taken that step otherwise.  I’m just glad that she did and shared those stories with me.  I doubt she knows the extent to which they inspired me.

Spring semester 2000, the professor in my freshman literature class passed out a flier for a short term study abroad program in the United Kingdom that summer.  Even though I would be taking another literature course I didn’t necessarily need, I’d be able to finish up my required humanities credits.  A summer in London sounded perfect.  I couldn’t sign up fast enough.  In the end, I would spend five weeks in the heart of London (Bloomsbury) and one week in Glasgow, Scotland.  For the first time, I would be away from my family and the canoe livery for an extended period of time during the summer.

Russell Square Station just happened to be the closest tube stop to the University of London and Commonwealth Hall. Sadly, Russell Sq. Station was bombed in an act of terrorism on 7 July 2005.

It’s funny what I’ve taken away from the entire experience.  First, I became an addict.  I became addicted to studying abroad.  As soon as I returned to Michigan, I knew that I wanted to spend at least one full semester studying abroad.  I hadn’t given up Spanish just yet and spending a semester (minimum) in a Spanish-speaking country seemed a foregone conclusion.  The width and breadth of Michigan State University’s Office of Study Abroad did not make it easy – or maybe a little too convenient.  The choices seemed endless.  I couldn’t make up my mind between a semester in Caceres, Spain or Quito, Ecuador.  Ultimately, I didn’t have to choose.  With my parents’ blessing and plenty of scholarship opportunities, I did both.  In the end, I participated in five separate study abroad programs through Michigan State and three alternative spring break programs in Mexico (two in Merida and one in Puebla).  The two study abroad programs not mentioned above were short term programs studying business in Mexico (one in Monterrey and one in Merida).  I could not have asked for a better education.  I like to think that it all started with that summer in London.

When I finally returned to campus, I landed a position as a peer advisor in what was then called the Office of Study Abroad on campus.  I spent my time working in the Office of Study Abroad helping students plan their own study abroad experiences.  To this day, it is the best job I’ve ever held (Russell Canoe Livery exempted, of course).

In addition to becoming an addict, my experiences in London and Glasgow left me with the sense that I could take on just about anything.  I grew up in Michigan’s smallest city, Omer, Michigan.  Attending one of the largest universities in the United States, Michigan State University definitely resulted in culture shock, and yet, it was nothing compared to what I experienced living in London during that time period.

In essence, London and Glasgow represented an awful lot of firsts in my life.  For the first time in my life, I had easy access to world class museums and theatres.  In fact, the program I completed focused extensively on the Arts and Crafts movement.  Not only did I have the opportunity to visit the Victoria and Albert (the V&A), we often visited various exhibits as part of class.  One free weekend, I explored the Louvre with friends, traveling to Paris via the Chunnel shortly after it opened.  I also experienced all the pomp and circumstance of the British monarchy as the Queen Mum turned 100 years old that summer.  A closeup I’d taken of a Bobby while witnessing the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace didn’t win the Office of Study Aboad’s photography contest, but it did end up in their catalog for the following year.  I still have the catalog and countless memories.

Every time I hear Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day, I am instantly transported back to that time in London, to the 19 year old I once was, so many opportunities unfolding before me for the first time.  I can imagine myself rushing to catch the tube to class or the V&A each morning from Russell Square Station.  I envision myself catching the train to Bath after a failed attempt to spend a weekend of adventure in Wales or heading to the airport to spend the weekend in Dublin.  I can’t think of anything more powerful than the ability of music to transport you back to a time and place.

Joan Osbourne – One of Us (1995)

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Joan Osbourne – One of Us (1995) (Video) (Lyrics)

There are one hit wonders, and then there are one hit wonders that reside on Grammy nominated albums.  While I’ve never been a fan of award shows, even the Grammys, I did pay some attention to the Grammy albums that came out each February as a teen – just in case there was something I’d missed the year before.

I don’t remember when I first heard One of Us, but I immediately fell in love with the song.  It was the perfect song to belt by yourself in your car when you think no one is watching.  Half the fun of getting your driver’s license as a teen is the anticipation.  I couldn’t wait to be the one behind the wheel, belting whatever I pleased.

Growing up, the only thing better than waiting to get my license was waiting for my older cousin Abby to get hers.  We are only ten months apart in age and grew up together.  We shared a first Christmas at Grandma Buttrick’s house in 1980 – and every one thereafter until Grandma passed away in 2014.  Now, at Christmas, we bring the party to Abby, even in the middle of blizzards.  We did elementary school, junior high and high school, and even college together.  We, along with her older sister Emily, studied supply chain management at Michigan State.  Freshman year, she was my ride home.  Safe to say, my childhood would have been much different without Abby J.  She was very much the older sister I never had.

In February 1996, the Grammys were over, we were celebrating all of the February birthdays at Aunt Robin’s house, and Abby was just about to turn 16.  Her first car was similar to mine.  I ended up with my beloved ‘89 red Grand Prix and hers was a white ‘88.  Both of those cars ended up saving our lives.

I don’t remember specifically what Abby received for her birthday, aside from the car, but we ended up listening to One of Us on the CD player she had had installed in her car.   There is nothing to compare to giggling in the back seat of a car with your older cousin and younger sister singing along to a great song at top volume.  This image of the three of us singing One of Us with as much emotion as we could muster continues to haunt me.  In a few months, everything would change.

The day started out normal enough.  A typical beautiful early June day not long after school ended for the year, it was to be my first day of driver’s ed.  I had just enough time to down a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats before Mom was to return from the gym and drop me off at the high school.

I met Mom in the kitchen after I heard the door to the garage open.  I knew immediately something awful had happened.  Mom couldn’t stop crying, and generally, Mom wasn’t a crier.  On the way home from the gym, she had heard that Abby had been involved in a tragic car accident.  I don’t know for sure, but I have the idea that she heard it on the radio on her way home.  However it was reported on the radio, it made it sound as though Abby was at fault.  That certainly wasn’t the case.  In reality, Abby was hit head on by a drunk driver.  Another car had been immediately in front of Abby and swerved out of the way of the drunk driver, leaving Abby with no time to react.  Tragically, the other driver died.

Abby was OK but certainly not unscathed.  Once she was home from the hospital, I remember visiting her with my mom, sister, and brother.  My younger brother Garrett, 5 at the time, made her laugh so hard that he had to stop.  It made her stitches hurt.  He still has that effect on people.

My intention here isn’t to tell Abby’s story as I could never do it justice and it isn’t mine to tell.  Instead, it is to finally admit just how deeply Abby’s accident affected me.  Keep in mind that her accident happened on my first day of driver’s ed.  Shortly after learning the true story of the accident and that Abby would be OK, I was sitting in a classroom listening to the driver’s ed instructor talk about her accident.  I wouldn’t feel comfortable behind the wheel for years.   It would take two road trips well into college – one to Minnesota and one to Texas – to make that happen.

In the end, Abby and I joined SADD (Students Against Drunk Driving) the following school year.  She went on to suffer braces all over again and became class president her senior year.  Eventually, we both ended up at Michigan State.  It is thanks to Abby, who still didn’t feel completely comfortable driving the expressway, I learned the back roads home from State.

Everyone always seemed to chalk up my issues behind the wheel – fear, basically – to Turner Syndrome (TS).  Most women with TS do not get their license on time due to depth perception/spatial issues.  Fortunately, I’ve learned how to deal with those.  No, it was my fear and anxiety after Abby’s accident.  One of Us will always take me back to a much simpler time.

Don McLean – American Pie (1971)

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Don McLean – American Pie (1971) (Video) (Lyrics)

(Written February 6, 2023)

This Day in History – The Day The Music Died

The Day The Music Died  (Earlier Blog Post – Documentary)

What can I say about Don McLean’s American Pie that hasn’t already been said?  Not much, actually.  Yet, that song is so ingrained in my love of music, my childhood, and more.  It can safely be called Americana at this point – a modern American folk song in the best sense of the term.

I couldn’t tell you the first time I heard the song, but I have always loved it and could deeply visualize the lyrics.  For whatever reason, I imagined the high school gym as the same high school gym where I’d watched my dad play old man basketball countless times as a preschooler – his alma mater – Arenac Eastern High School in Twining, MI.  I think it has something to do with how rural the setting appears to be in the song.  Sadly, Arenac Eastern High School no longer exists.  The building, now a community center, still sits among acres of farm land and a tiny village.  When I think of the quintessential rural American high school, Arenac Eastern immediately comes to mind.  It has always felt like stepping back in time and into my family history.

Whatever the case may be, I do know that I had the lyrics practically memorized by 4th grade.  Mrs. Currie, my 4th grade teacher and my first teacher at Standish Elementary, used the lyrics to teach us the terms “levee” and “dirge.”  In fact, at this point, I can’t listen to the song without thinking about 4th grade and Mrs. Currie.  None of the kids were getting it.  She then began to sing the song, basically saying “Come on!  You know the song.”  Except, they didn’t.  As I remember it, I was the only kid who knew the song and lyrics – at least well enough for the purposes of her vocabulary lesson.  It was funny, irrelevant, and frankly, kind of summed up that school year.

Years later, as a substitute teacher, I had the opportunity, with a bit of caution and specific directions from the regular classroom teacher, to show high school Spanish students the movie La Bamba.  After the movie, I had just enough time to explain the term “the day the music died” and the lyrics to American Pie.  They left singing Oh Donna, moved by the true story, which completely took me by surprise.  It also happened to cement it in my memory.

February 3rd, 1959 – “The day the music died” – (L to R) Buddy Holly, JP Richardson (the Big Bopper), and Ritchie Valens died in an airplane accident, traveling over Iowa as part of the Winter Dance Party Tour.

I’m glad that I had the opportunity to explain the lyrics to American Pie and help them make the connection.  I may have known the song longer than I care to remember, but it wasn’t all that long ago that I learned that the lyrics referenced a true tragedy, much less the death of Buddy Holly, JP Richardson (the Big Bopper), and Ritchie Valens.  I suppose that is the true tragedy of American Pie:  What if they had lived?

The musical legacy of Buddy Holly, of course, is staggering.  Modern pop and rock music would not have evolved in quite the same way without him and the Crickets.  He inspired the Beatles to write their own music, among countless others.  In fact, it could be said that Buddy Holly was one of the main influences of what became known as the British invasion.  JP Richardson (the Big Bopper) and Ritchie Valens were just getting started.  Again, what if?

If nothing else, American Pie taught me that lyrics can indeed be a form of poetry.

Lou Diamond Phillips (Ritchie Valens) and Danielle von Zerneck (Donna Ludwig) in a car in a scene from the film ‘La Bamba’, 1987.
(Photo by Columbia Pictures/Getty Images)

Guns N’ Roses – November Rain (1991)

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W.M. and I – Puebla, Mexico – March 2004

Guns N’ Roses – November Rain (1991) (Official Video) (Lyrics)

(Written February 2, 2023)

Ah, Michigan State and all of my Alternative Spring Break (ASB) memories in Mexico.  Some of my best ASB memories involve W.M., and one in particular, November Rain by Guns N’ Roses.  It takes me back to nothing less than the most romantic evening of my life.

I met him at the airport as we headed to Merida, Mexico for a week of working hard doing volunteer work and playing even harder.  I was listening to Here Comes the Sun, ready to relax in the Yucatecan sun in the middle of a busy, crazy spring semester, and here was this guy – our site leader for the week – chatting me up.  He flashed me this great smile and asked me what I was listening to at the moment.  We bonded over George Harrison.

Lunch break with friends – Merida, Mexico – March 2001
The week W.M. and I met.

It didn’t take us long to become friends.  By the end of our first day of volunteer work, we were hanging out eating pizza and drinking Mexican beer, getting lost in deep, meaningful conversations.  I had lost my grandfather almost exactly a year before – at age 20, the first real loss of someone so close to me – and I was happy to find someone who understood.  That was the thing – W.M. and I should have had everything in common.

A year ahead of me, he studied marketing and Spanish to my supply chain management and Spanish.  No wonder we had found one another.  Later, the only time I actually met up with him on campus in East Lansing – or the United States for that matter, and for lunch no less – he told me all about his semester in Quito, Ecuador.  I don’t remember if I had already decided on a semester in Ecuador, but after hearing about W.M.’s experiences there, it was a forgone conclusion.

I’d love to say that this story is a college romance that ended well, but that simply wasn’t the case.  Instead, it is a story of friendship spanning years, countries, cultures, and continents that didn’t end so well.  It is also a story of unrequited love on my part.  I fell. Hard.

The thing is that I was never going to change my plans for anyone, muchless a man who hadn’t shown the least bit interest in anything more than friendship.  We left it as friends and that was it.  We were both driven with much to do.  That is, until Spain.

Fast forward nearly two years, and I was in the middle of my semester abroad in Caceres, Spain.  I’d resigned to myself that W.M., unfortunately, wanted to remain friends, nothing more.  Then I received the email.  The week before Valentine’s Day, I receive an email from him stating that he had landed an internship in Madrid – an easy train ride away – did I want to meet up?  Did I!

In the end, we spent a fun weekend in Madrid hanging out.  He booked me a hostel near wherever he was living.  We spent Saturday hanging out, eventually ending up at the Hard Rock Cafe and a beautiful park nearby.  We talked for hours.  Too good to be true, right?  Right.  When he walked me back to the hostel and didn’t even so much as kiss me goodnight, I wept.

In 2004, I returned to Mexico and ASB as a site leader myself.  Now a senior, I juggled interviewing for full-time positions in Texas with classwork along with all of my extracurricular responsibilities, including ASB.  As a result, I had to fly into Mexico City on my own and take a bus to Puebla to meet up with the rest of the group.  I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but W.M. got ahold of me once again.  Would I like to meet up for dinner in Puebla one evening?  He happened to be working in Mexico City at the time.

Beyond confused, I, of course, said yes.  I had no idea what to expect.  Why would this man take a bus at least two hours each way just to spend the evening with me?  He knew no one else in the group and the plan was just for the two of us to meet up.  We were friends, but seriously, what else was going on here?

I met him in the zocalo, or town square, and we quickly found an outdoor table at a local restaurant.  In my mind, the only thing better than Mexican food is authentic Mexican food.  The cuisine in Puebla tops them all.  Pollo en salsa mole anyone?

After watching the sunset over an incredible authentic Mexican dinner, a little red wine, and the ever present great conversation, W.M. and I somehow found our way into the Mexican equivalent of a dive bar.  Now, I am not much of a drinker, but I love the atmosphere in dive bars from time to time.  This one happened to be perfect.

I never really did see any sign advertising the place, but I could not have had more fun.  W.M. and I ended up holding court with a group of Mexican young men roughly our age.  We, two gringos who spoke Spanish who happened to end up in this cool unadvertised bar, stood out.  In fact, they thought we were married.  So, in this ambiance, we all start singing along to November Rain – very poorly.  It is still among the most romantic nights of my life – and he never even so much as kissed me.  Yet, there was at least enough chemistry between us for people to think we were married.

That was the last time I ever saw W.M.  In 2008, I looked him up on Facebook, and unfortunately, it ended up in a political argument that ended our friendship.  I still have no idea how he could have attended the same business school as me, and yet not understand the impact government can have on business, good or bad – small business in particular.  Time had not treated him well.  In fact, Diego Rivera comes to mind.  I recently watched Frida and it all came flooding back, much to my amusement.  The passion between Frida and Diego gets me every time.

Over the years, I’ve tried and tried to capture our friendship in writing, and I’ve never been able to do it well.  I once even brought an effort for critique, and the reaction of the men in my writing group still cracks me up.  Every last man in our group believed him to be gay.  All I have to say is this:  If he is indeed gay, he didn’t know it himself at the time.  The last I knew, he had a Mexican girlfriend and lived in California.

I can’t help but think of him every time I watch Casablanca, particularly the line “We’ll always have Paris.”  Indeed.  We’ll always have Merida, Madrid, and Puebla.