There are certain songs that I associate with certain men with whom I've been involved. Some men for not very long. Maybe it's a factor of having been attracted to so many damn musicians. But here are a few selections from my soundtrack.
Solace, by Scott Joplin, as played on the piano by the young man who I knew when I was 17 (and saw again last Saturday night.) It's lovely, really. If you aren't familiar with it, you should do yourself a favor and listen to it.
Wild Thing and Henry the Eighth, as played on the guitar by the other young man (who was actually five years older than me) who I knew when I was 17.
Steppin' Out by Joe Jackson and Human Hands ("do I have to draw you a diagram?") by Elvis Costello -- songs for the first one I fell in love with when I was 17 and then 18. (He played the piano, guitar and drums. By ear. He couldn't read music. And his fantasy was for Steve Naive to fall ill during an Elvis Costello concert so he could save the day.) Lots of other songs remind me of him too.
Fast Car by Tracy Chapman for another one. And Pretty Boy Floyd. And Jambalaya.
Today my husband is not a musician. He cannot carry a tune. But early on our song was Leaving on a Jet Plane because we lived on opposite ends of the continent from each other. After we were living together and the few times we moved from one apartment or house to another, we used to sing it to our cat to stop her from howling as she rode in the cat carrier in the moving truck. It didn't work, but we still did it anyway.
When I was 19 or 20, I'd noticed the pattern -- that there tended to be a song for every man. So as I went along after that, I'd try to think of a song to associate with every man with whom I was involved. But it didn't always work. You can't force these things.
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