Forever Paisley

One hour ago my kitchen was full of Michiganders, the record player was spinning and there was only one piece of sushi left on the table.  My musical selections throughout the evening were not atypical by any means.  I started with Let It Bleed moved over to The Best of Buffalo Springfield and decided to end our feast with The Best of The Band.  It’s been a long time since I have really listened to my records.  As of late they have just been background.  Noise.  I have entered a transitional period of my life.  In my quest to determine my next phase, I’ve been stuck in my head a lot.  I’ve spent hours mapping out scenarios.  Days analyzing the risks and rewards associated with every potential move.  I have become desensitized.  Less enthralled by the world around me.  I have lost interest in invading the Seattle social scene for another evening of debauchery.  I could care less about your love life, how many doughnuts you ate at the company picnic or your most recent celebrity sighting.  I don’t give a shit about misdiagnosis of ADHD among American youth or Mark Hurd’s intimate encounters with Jodie Fisher.  This is my time.  Time to be selfish.  Time to collect, consider and resolve.

In this time of reflection it’s no wonder that music hasn’t influenced me like it normally does.  It hasn’t moved me.  I haven’t been drawn to it.  I haven’t thought about it.  That is … I hadn’t thought about it until this evening.  I hadn’t thought about it until my fellow Michiganders closed my front door behind them.

As I walked back to the living room the record player was still on.   I grabbed my water, headed for the porch and then I heard it.  A voice that is coined to be one of the most recognizable voices in classic rock.  A voice straight from rural Arkansas.  A voice that epitomizes dusty roads, hay barrels and rusted tractors.  It was the voice of Levon Helm.  “Virgil Caine is the name and I served on the Danville train…”

“The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”.  A song by Robbie Robertson that planted its roots at a festival.  A free festival promoting “3 Days of Peace & Music”.  A song with historical meaning, captivating listeners with its rhythm and lyrical imagery.  A song that was last played in 1976 at The Last Waltz, marking the end of The Band’s touring career. The Last Waltz, documented by Martin Scorsese was released as a documentary in 1978 … and then again in 2002.  In the Winter of 2004 a good friend and fellow music junky, Philip, recommended I add this rockumentary classic to my collection.

For the next 2.5 years The Last Waltz was not only part of my collection, it was an integral part of my college experience.   With two jobs, a full load of credits, extracurriculars galore and a running routine that could kick my ass these days, I was a busy girl.  I found study groups distracting, I despised the flourescent lights in the library and wasn’t a huge fan of the black-North-Face-Ugg-boot-wearin’ sorority girls that infiltrated the popular coffee shops.  That said my bedroom often became my study quarters.  After a long day I would creep into my bedroom, spread out my text books and walk over to my TV-DVD combo to pop in The Last Waltz.  As the disc menu loaded I would shuffle through my sheets for the remote and prepare for an evening of studying.  On the night stand to the left of me you could usually find four things – a glass (or bottle) of wine, a bag of burnt popcorn, a pipe packed with the Midwest’s finest (courtesy of my fabulous roommate Kinky K), and a picture of my family and I.  As the evening progressed I would listen to The Band’s “last concert” over and over again, peaking up from my text books only for my favorite special guests.  The wine would disappear, leaving behind only a set of stained teeth and a dry red circle at the bottom of the glass.  The contents in the hand-blown piece beside me would dwindle ever so slightly until it turned to dust.  The strategically burnt popcorn would make its way into my sheets and eventually become one with my carpet.  These were the moments I spent shaping my future.  Studying to nail my next exam.  Setting myself up for my first “real” job.

Surprisingly enough, this method worked out well for me.  In theory.  I walked with a 3.9 and a job offer from Microsoft.  What more could a 21-year-old college graduate from rural Michigan ever want?  Four and a half years later that is the question I am still asking myself.  What did that college graduate really want?  Did she even want to go to college at all?  These questions will have to answer themselves another day, but for now … thank you Levon Helm.  Thank you to The Band.  Thanks for making me listen.  Thanks for reminding me.

Day 9,435.   The night they drove old Dixie down, and the people were singing, they went, “Na, na, na”.