I want to get lost in your rock‘n’roll & drift away

From the loose ages of 8-12, I used to listen to Drift Away by Dobie Gray every night as I went to bed. To say that’s an exaggeration would be a lie. IPod Nano in hand and wired earbuds secured, I physically wouldn’t let my body fall asleep until I heard Dobie’s sweet bluesy voice. You may call it odd behavior or even a good old fashioned case of OCD. But I call it getting lost in the goddamn rocknroll. 

I knew how fundamental music was to my vitality at a young age. I have vague memories of being in the back seat of the car, my hand always skimming the speaker because I liked how the vibration of a song could flow through my entire body. Magic, I thought, how one song can change my mood; my energy; my state of being. 

My sisters and I had Sirius XM music quizzes on the regular. My dad would cover the dash with his hand, and we had to try and guess the song name and artist before him. His annoyingly extensive music knowledge and impossibly competitive nature made it a difficult thing to do. Sometimes we wouldn’t even try and instead, just watch him attempt the grand slam: 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, Classic Vinyl, Classic Rewind, and Lithium all in one go. It pains me to admit he rarely failed the task. 

He can hear two notes from a song and give you the artist name, song name, and an all too long story about exactly what was happening in the world (and in his personal life) when the song came out. 

He taught me that music isn’t something that just plays in the background. It’s a story; immersive and immortal. It exists as both a fleeting memory and an eternal entity. 

It can generate a slight headbob & a splash of joy or it can become an entire way of life.  2 chords and time has collapsed- you’re now immersed in a memory or an illusion.

The other day, I was skiing mellow cruiser laps and Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix started playing in my headphones. All of a sudden, I’m laying in a field in the Lofoten Islands. I have dirt on my face because I’ve been living outside for 3 weeks and haven’t glanced in a mirror. The song has become my mantra. It plays on repeat.

That summer awakened a sense of independence and mysticism that will never leave me. Little Wing keeps that alive. 

Music bypasses language; it reaches a place conversation can’t. 

Before we understand lyrics, we understand rhythm. A sound wave, a heartbeat- it’s all forms of energy vibrating at a specific frequency. I think that’s why different people are drawn to different genres. We are waves trying to sync up with similar waves. 

It’s the only thing in the world that brings people of all kinds together; to sing & scream & move their bodies in chaotic unison. To dance like idiots if you will. 

I find it hilariously human to see a group of people dancing together all at once. It’s got to be one of the most freeing things we can do. Loosen the grip and get boogy with it- I’m a big proponent. 

As Adrianne Lenker of Big Thief sings in Spud Infinity:

Everyone knows to dance, even with just one finger. 

When I was 14, I went to visit my Grandmom in Norway. She was in the latest stages of dementia. At that point, she couldn’t really link thoughts together. My uncle warned me before going in, but tweenager Britta was confident her Grandmom would be ecstatic to see her after all this time. That wasn’t quite the case. The only person she could recognize was her husband, my Farfar. Her eyes lacked life and understanding, something impossible to grasp for me at that age. She was the smartest woman I’ve ever known. 

We went into the common area of the nursing home for an ice cream. Without a word, my mysteriously musically gifted cousin, Endre, snuck behind the piano. I’ll never forget the moment he started playing. As the music floated through the air, I watched my Grandmom’s eyes widen. She looked at me, and her intelligent, witty eyes sparkled. It was like she woke up. She grabbed my hand and my Farfar’s hand, and with a radiant smile, swung her arms and hummed to the music. I laughed and cried simultaneously. 

I understood music differently that day. It wasn’t just sound. It was access- to memory, to identity, to something beyond human. 

My Grandmom may not have known my name that day, but somewhere inside her, the music still lived. 

(Shoutout Dobie)