I could relate to Kevin Kline (as Harold the perfect man) in The Big Chill, in the cleaning-up-the-kitchen scene, where he puts vinyl on the record player, and The Temptations “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” blasts.
Jeff Goldblum as Michael shakes his head.
Michael: “Harold, don’t you have any other music, you know, from this century?”
Harold: “There is no other music, not in my house.”
Michael: “There’s been a lot of terrific music in the last ten years.
Harold: *completely non-plussed* “Like what?”
Though Harold was stuck in the sixties, for the last forty years I’ve been trapped in the seventies. After classic rock stations became “a thing” in the nineties, there was no longer any other music in my house. I happily leap-frogged over the new country craze, the dreadful dark days of hip hop and rap. So, my music box. I imagine pix of The Eagles, The Doobies, Fleetwood Mac, The Allman Brothers, Steely Dan, Heart, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, and Tom Petty, Mod Podged to the surface, the lid securely latched.
Then, last year I turned sixty. I found myself mellowing. I unlatched the box and opened it an inch or so. But what slipped inside took me not into the present but farther into the past, to folk rock. My go-to playlists are populated with Neil Young, The Mama and the Papas, Cat Stevens, James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, George Harrison, some really fabulous stuff.
At sixty-one, I feel freer, more authentic, more open to exploration, empowered. Hopefully, wiser. And all of a sudden, my ears have pricked to some new tunes. Today my thirty-year-old daughter and I were driving and listening to one of her playlists. I heard the song “Flowers” by Cibo Matto and immediately downloaded it. Click here to give it a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9gtG0hsYPw.
Me: *Bobbing my head, feeling super hip* “I really like this new sound.”
My daughter: “Mom, Cibo Matto has been around for about twenty years.”
I’m keeping my music box unlatched. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.