My first love was Elvis Presley. Though my dad will make claims to my heart first belonging to Ringo Starr, Elvis was the constant in my life from age 4 onwards. I would sit in the back of my Mom’s red mini van, gazing into the portrait that adorned the empty cassette tape holder I clutched as his voice flowed through the speakers. On my mom’s rearview mirror hung an Elvis Christmas ornament, clad in a gold suit, dancing back and forth as the car moved (though his stoic motion didn’t compare to the real life dancing). For Valentine’s day one year, I received a tin heart that had his face printed on it and kept that as a treasure box for years to follow. Through my childhood, I collected Elvis knick knacks, keepsakes and apparel to go along with the CDs that replaced the cassettes but not the love for the rock star. It only seemed appropriate that when I got my first car, I named it after my first love, thus dubbing the Honda CR-V “Presley.”
It was as though my parents had played match maker, setting me up with musicians that impressed me with their melodies and harmonies before their looks and bravado. Alongside Elvis, I was introduced to CD book after CD book of others- Queen, Johnny Cash, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Grateful Dead, Van Morrison and so many more were so present that I only ever regarded them as “classic,” not “old.”
As I entered my teen years, I distanced myself from my previous loves to discover something “new.” I abandoned CD’s for iPods and ear buds and spent my allowance on the iTunes store’s “Top 10 Tracks.” No one, including myself, wanted to jam to classic rock when synthesized beats and vocals could be put on instead. Listening to older music was either looked down upon or mustered the response, “You listen to the Grateful Dead? Name the members” or “Nice Rolling Stones T-shirt, I bet you can’t name 5 songs” as if a requirement of enjoying music was having to prove yourself.
I’ve rediscovered my love for the music of my childhood that simultaneously happens to be the music of my parents’ own youth. I’ve found that I’d rather play my Johnny Cash CD on repeat than listen to my latest Soundcloud likes as I drive the 3.5 hours from home to school. Maybe it’s the nostalgia associated with song that makes listening so much more enjoyable or maybe its that now I’m older and I have more appreciation for the content that has held its own decade after decade, traveling from generation to generation.
Whatever music you enjoy, whether is the single that came out last week or the melody that played as Beethoven moved his fingers across the ivory keys of a grand piano, play it at the max volume in your car, with all the windows down and don’t be concerned when the people you pull up next to turn and stare for a little too long. The memories provoked by music are some of the most potent and can only be recalled as the song plays on full blast. Ignore those that question your interests based on your t-shirts and the posters on your wall. Enjoy your music and play it at the loudest setting. I’ll be doing the same in Presley, singing along to his namesake.
