Music and Memory; or, My Version of the Madeleine

October 2, 2006 at 3:17 am (Drama, Sounds, Writing)

I remember when a night out was something that you prepped for; an event where somehow the right combination of booze, drugs, sounds and people would somehow result in a cataclysmic meteor shower. Rarely did it ever achieve this legendary status, but there were nights that did.

These stories always start off with The night when . . . And somehow, I have fewer and fewer of these stories. And that’s probably good–we see from last night how wretched I feel the next day, and how I no longer have time to be an ass and go on 10-hour benders, and how I’m so much more mature and healthy these days–but I miss that rush of life.

Somehow, hanging out with veritable strangers and going to shitty clubs, I remembered how I used to not care who was DJing or how bad the crowd was or how crappy the soundsystem was. None of that mattered because I was out and I was going to own the whole damn place for as long as I was there, and somehow I would be legendary, if just for one perfect moment.

It seems so shallow but it always felt so good. I suppose now my quest for immortality lies within my writing. More cerebral yes, but usually not the rush of hearing Billy Jean come on the soundsystem. (Which, in fact, did happen last night, and was, in fact, worth every moment of Skeevy-McSkeeversons trying to grind up on me.)

This is another thing that astounds me: I realized yesterday morning that it had been forever and a day since I just listened to music and danced. Here I am, trying to focus my thesis around a general idea of music, and I’m not even listening to music.  Jeffy let me borrow the new Roots. Like everyone says, it’s more “produced” and slick than past albums, but it hit me. My roommate is out of town and I blared it in the living room, dancing around like a fool.  Then I went and downloaded a bunch of other music that I had been missing.

And, in a show of daring and desperation, I even busted out my Chopin and Bach and Gershwin collections. And I listened, and began to let myself feel the hurt of having given them up so long ago.

I almost want to rush home right now, grab my old sheet music, and just look at the notes on the page.

Perhaps find a piano somewhere.

Play.