The first
time I bought a Maxwell album I was 16, freshly driver’s licensed, and
taking every advantage of summertime self-transportation freedom. After
spending the day with my devastatingly handsome, and soon-to-be-16-year-old
boyfriend [cradle robber!], my voyage back to The Valley through Hollywood
allowed me the joys of traffic and radio “seek” button pushing. The dial landed
on the most sensual falsetto tones I had ever heard [take notes, Robin Thicke].
Years away from actually doing the deed, I imagined if it was done correctly, sex
would make me feel similar to how mesmerized I was by his incredible harmonies
and romantic lyrics. Needless to say, instead of driving straight home, my car
found its way to the Tower Records [do they still have those?] near the Beverly
Center Mall.
Now, before
fancy-schmancy car radios displayed the name of the song & artist you are
listening to, one had to wait for the DJ to tell you the name of the artists in
the previous set, which could take ages if the set was particularly long and
heaven help you if you had to sit through a commercial break. I hadn’t the
patience. So, when I walked into the store, I found an employee and sang him
the part of the song I could remember; he directed me towards the R&B
section and asked me to re-sing it for his co-worker who happened to know Maxwell’s
repertoire well because his girlfriend also developed swoon-y tendencies when
his voice seeped through the airwaves.
I became a
fan for life.
As a writer,
sometimes you simply need to give credit where it is due and I feel the
screenplay of Forrest Gump [one of
the greatest films of my generation] sums up my sentiments well: You know, it's funny what a young man
recollects. 'Cause I don't remember being born. I don't recall what I got for
my first Christmas and I don't know when I went on my first outdoor picnic.
But, I do remember the first time I heard the sweetest voice in the wide world.
While
Maxwell can not hold a candle to Jenny Gump’s beauty, I completely understand
where he is coming from.
To this day,
whenever I hear a song from this particular album, every ounce of me is
transported to the sweltering heat of that car, to the longing I had to feel
about someone the way the lyrics described, to the contentment with all that traffic,
prolonging the time I had to experience his music for the first time.
They say
elements of life are cyclical. Music, fashion, and trends more generally are
said to rise like a phoenix. Just when you never thought you’d see bellbottoms
again, there they are on your teenage daughter. Remakes of films and recycling
of other artists’ devotion to their craft are making current “artists” wealthy
[ex. Michael Bublé, the poor man’s Frank Sinatra]. My hope is that whatever
musical cycle we are in gets thrown off its axis soon because I miss music. I
miss lyrics. I miss instrumentation. I miss helplessly turning into the parking
lot of Tower Records because my soul refuses to go one more day without
listening to that song I just heard. So to anyone reading this: If you are a lyricist, a member of an orchestra, a band member, a lover of real music or an
in-the-shower-singer, do not stop creating.
With any luck, we are on
the brink of a musical revolution and we all need to be warmed up when the time
arrives.
~carter
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