I say, It’s Alright.
Ukulele tabs here: http://stewartgreenhill.com/ukulele/HereComesTheSun.html
(I’m just sayin’.)
A Dose of Bob Wills
The first 3 tunes made me laugh out loud, and the last one made me blush. The exact medicine you’ve worked in my heart. How could I not think of you?
As previously noted, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing, honey,” was the answer to every concern, deep or trivial, expressed in our home. When you’re 16 and mad because no one understands you, it’s not that helpful. At 56, I see it differently. Really differently. The trick is not to go too far into the future, and to realize you don’t know as much about the past as you think. Not saying I’ve mastered that trick, by the way. That’s what Stevie Wonder is for. (Also, and not for nothin’, you can dance to it.)
Music is More Real Than Anything
I’m going to tell you a story, and I don’t want you to feel sad about it. But since you of all people know how much of my life I have lived in my car, I think you’ll understand.
For years, I kept the car radio tuned to some sort of conversation. Voices, voices, voices, covering the road noise. I leaned on those voices for proof I was still part of real life, even as the miles rolled over on the odometer, measuring my time in suspended animation. Early in the morning, it was Joy Cardin, “umming” her way through every interview. Coming home, The News fed my moral indignation and current affairs Jones. I spent hours and hours listening to people talk.
But the world can shake itself apart without leaving any outward traces. Not every seismic shift shows on the surface. Truly, I can’t remember how I got home from O’Hare, after my dad died. If you told me I took a boat, I couldn’t swear that your were wrong. I know my world looked the same. I just didn’t have any idea how to keep living in it.
But I’ll never forget that first bright morning back, merging onto Verona Road at Old PB, and turning on the radio. As words chattered out of the speakers, I felt an electric surge of revulsion. My hand reached reflexively for the presets, like swatting away a fly, and tapped the only music I had programmed.
Right away, I knew what had happened. Marv wanted to talk, and he wanted me to listen. And music was how he said everything.
From that moment, there was no going back. The car was filled with anything tuneful – early mornings on WORT, early evenings on WMSE, the polka station if I could find it, the Latin music station when there was nothing but rap heading home from Milwaukee. I just needed music, every day for the next 2 years. Music is more real than anything.
So can we keep talking this way? I’ll leave a little tune on this page for you. And you just stop by whenever you want to see what’s here. And we’ll agree that the music is true, even if all the words aren’t perfect – and we’ll both know the difference.
This page will just have links to tunes – a list getting longer and longer – until I can figure out something else. This story will stay at the bottom, and the music will go on top, and keep building.
And I’ll write something, sometimes. Because I can’t make music, and I also can’t help myself. Words, words, words. Whatever they’re worth, they all say the same thing, just like all the songs. I love you.