I was at this show, and years later in an abandoned church, before he played, Damien Jurado and I would have a conversation that would kind of change my life, though he is unaware of that fact. I sometimes forget about my luck in living where I lived at twenty, twenty-one, and again, later. Now. So much good music, so many inspirational people.
We saw Yo La Tengo when George was in utero. He freaked out. I was huge and Nathan had to fetch me a stool out from under some sympathetic dude who looked with pure pity when Nathan motioned at me, across the room, shifting my weight, my belly probably being visibly pummeled from the inside. One of George's name inspirations is Georgia Hubley of Yo La Tengo; when, -- listening to her sing and bang the drums -- his usual frenetic movements became rhythmic dancing, feet and fists in my guts, to You Can Have it All, I knew we were meant for each other.
To say that I have a record collection is something of an understatement. If you ask me, I have THE record collection, formerly belonging to my grandpa who was, for many reasons, the rulingest grandpa of all time. Pertinent to this discussion, however, is not the fact that he meticulously taped movies from TV, then numbered and catalogued them, providing his grandchildren with a library of anything they could ever hope to watch while splayed belly-down on shag carpet, drinking Vernor's ginger ale. Nor is it relevant that he endured thousands of kicks to the groin while propelling somewhat klutzy granddaughters into swimming pool backflips. Also immaterial: his penchant for hyper-documentation, leaving his family with albums upon albums of amazing photos and an unwavering association of Grandpa with the ERR-err-err of a triggered Polaroid camera. What is pertinent to this post:
My grandpa gave me my first mixtape.
I keep it in a drawer, surrounded by socks and underwear, with the other mixtapes he gave me, one of which he made immediately after my grandma died. It's exactly as heartbreaking as you might imagine.
There have been other tapes made by boys and girls, glued to my car stereo, worn out and cried about and loved, their handmade inserts pored over, meanings overanalyzed. But, though I've kept them all, I couldn't tell you without a doubt where any of them are. Grandpa's mixtapes get the underwear drawer treatment of honor. I like to think of the records as his last, most incredible mixtape-gift to me.
Music is important in our family. The record player is rarely off; Pandora plays when it needs a break. George requests impromptu concerts by pointing at Nathan's guitar. My autoharp and accordion are dusty but familiar nonetheless and George has a bag of instruments -- a maraca, a tambourine, a concertina, a weird, Russian zither-y thing -- that get daily use.
Rebecca Woolf has been doing a series of songs, one a week, on her blog. I don't remember why she started it, but I've been taken with the idea, especially with documenting the songs that go on brief heavy rotation in our home. An internet mixtape. For you, for George, for me to remember that month (year) I only wanted to listen to the same two Secret Stars songs over and over and over. A tribute to my grandpa, who would make George the most killer mixes.
Friday, May 20, 2011 at 7:56PM 