I
’m sitting in my dorm room on a
Monday night. A red milk crate
next to my dresser contains some
of my favorite vinyl albums I have
ever bought myself, or found in my
dad’s record collection. Flipping past albums
by David Bowie, The Who and even Kendrick
Lamar, my fingers linger on the ragged edge
of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. I remember
buying it in a record shop in Clawson, Mich.
It still feels like it did when I bought it: in
shitty condition, but like someone else had
cherished it as much as I do now. I slide the
album out of its cover and watch the needle
slowly descend onto the outer rim.
As the first note resonates through the
speakers, memories of yesteryear begin to
manifest. My eyes slowly close as I lean back
on my carpet, ready to remember.
***
“Blowin’ in the Wind”
I saw myself sitting at some random
open mike in some random café in some
random city in metro Detroit. The espresso
machines, acting as percussion, let off steam
while songwriters croon their hearts out to
a crowd of 10 or 20. I said I hadn’t planned
on performing (even though everyone saw
my guitar case next to my seat). The signup
sheet, which was once filled to the brim with
performers, was empty. The MC pointed at
my case and called my name. My dad probably
set her up to it. Instinctively, I grabbed my
songbook and flipped to the track playing
in my ears right now. I must’ve been 11 or 12
years old then.
Sliding my guitar strap over my neck
and pretending like I knew how to tune by
ear, my prepubescent voice squeaked in the
microphone. It wasn’t my first open mike and
it wouldn’t be my last, but for some reason this
one seemed important.
“I dedicate this one to my dad,” I began.
***
“Girl from the North Country”
Despite
having
nothing
to
do
with
Dylan’s lyrics about a former lover, this song
transported me to the summer before freshman
year of college. I had a ton of friends who went
to the local Catholic high school. They’re all still
confused as to why I know them. Nonetheless,
we spent the entire summer together.
In my friend Lucy’s backyard, we would
grab blankets, dust off cheap plastic chairs and
build the biggest bonfire we could. Sweatshirts
were a must given the cool summer breeze. We
would practice handstands and fall on faces or
on our backs if we were lucky.
The orange glow of the fire reflected in my
friend Lily’s eyes next to me. We all knew we
would be going to different corners of the state,
country and even the globe in the upcoming
years. We decided to save the tears for later.
Instead, we opted for handstands.
***
“Masters of War”
In my ears, Dylan strikes a menacing chord
lamenting about the men behind the wars
that “build the big guns.” It reminds me of
the first protest I saw during a vacation in
Chicago the summer of 2014.
Walking through the city with my friend
Sean, my mom and her boyfriend at the
time, I heard a faint crowd in the distance.
Two streets over on Michigan Avenue, I
saw thousands of men, women and children
holding signs rallying in support of the state
of Palestine. I stood in silence for a few
minutes, mentally wishing them the best of
luck. It was all I could do in the moment.
***
“Down the Highway”
Every two or three weeks when I was
little, my parents and I would make the two-
and-a-half-hour drive to Kalamazoo. This
was before their divorce. Grandparents and
cousins from both sides of the family lived
about 10 miles from one another around
the city. Sometimes, I would fall asleep on
the ride because my mom always said they
would “take the shortcut” so we would get to
Humma’s quicker. The logistics behind this
magical secret route they took never crossed
my mind.
I would stare out the window and watch
the long stretches of pavement in front of us.
The trees waved at me as they shook from the
breeze. Large highway signs were just colors
to me. I felt every bump of the road shake
my seat. As I slowly got tired of listening to
the highway rumble underneath our car, I
decided to let my parents “take the shortcut.”
***
“Bob Dylan’s Blues”
Bob Dylan’s ramblings and harmonica
permeate my train of thought. I can almost
feel the cold metal of my old harmonica I had
when I was 12. It was in the key of D.
It was opening day for the Tigers. Instead
of going to the game, my dad and I went to
his friend’s tailgate around the corner from
Comerica Park. Radios blared live coverage of
the season opener all across the parking lot.
I had an orange Tigers cap on the ground, my
harmonica in my hand and a duct tape wallet
that longed for a couple of bucks. Playing
the only song I knew, “Love Me Do” by The
Beatles, intoxicated baseball fans stumbled
past my section of the sidewalk. I watched
them saunter down the street, laughing and
resting on each other for support. I doubt it
was my phenomenal harmonica skills that
convinced the Detroit pub patrons to toss
a couple bucks in my hat. My wallet was
packed to the brim with singles as the sun set
on a beautiful day of baseball.
***
“A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall”
Immediately, this song forces me back to
the day of my great-grandma Nanny’s funeral.
I know I was 11 because we have her memorial
card on my fridge back home.
She had always been my favorite relative
to visit. Not just because she would let my
cousin Evan and I eat chocolate donut holes
for breakfast, but because she didn’t care what
other people thought. It hurt for months when
she passed. The concept of “getting old” never
resonated with me until that moment. Then I
understood all too well.
At the funeral, I had to step outside with
my dad to get away from the stuffy visitation. I
didn’t like my tears landing on the lapel of my
tiny suit. In the sky, I saw dark and menacing
clouds in the distance, heading straight for
the funeral home. I knew Dylan understood
my pain through his lyrics. “A hard rain’s
gonna fall,” pain exists, and you can’t avoid
it. Like the clouds in the sky, they were going
to come no matter how much I didn’t want
them to. I just wished they wouldn’t have
come that day. I wanted see the blue sky and
remember how sunny days would reflect on
the pond in Nanny’s backyard. I wanted to
remember better days. But I couldn’t.
***
Silence.
Side one comes to an end. My eyes open
but I can feel my tear ducts welling up. I
rub my face and sit for a moment in stunned
reflection. I lift the needle, switch off the
turntable, flip to side two, and brace for
another track.
***
“Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”
Just as Dylan begins his fingerpicking, I
realize how the music resolves itself.
Pain in life brings reassurance and creates
the memories I recalled tonight. Of course
rain falls, but rain clears and the remnants
of the showers create puddles for children
to play in the next day. As Dylan reflects on
another lost love, I reflect on the role Nanny
played in my life before and after her death.
She’ll be with me. Always. “Fare thee well.”
***
We etch our memories into the blank
plastic canvas of our minds. Happy, sad or
anything in between, we carve them all. We
can’t choose when we remember what we
do, but that’s the beauty of music. Songs are
arranged in their order to guide us through
the past. The record spins until side one’s
time has elapsed, and this is where the
true magic of an album comes to life. We
trust music to guide us through in the best
direction it can — toward the center of the
album and beyond.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017 // The Statement
6B
Personal Statement:
33 1/3 Rotations Per Minute
by Matt Harmon, Daily Staff Reporter
ILLUSTRATION BY MICHELLE PHILLIPS