I love music, but I don’t really know It.
My husband can hear a riff or two and name the artist and song. He would totally kill it on Jamie Foxx’s new game show Beat Shazam. His musical tastes have evolved, while I’m wondering if Pure Prairie League is still on tour. I, however, am always the one who gets earworms. You know, the catchy lyric from a song that runs through your head over and over again? The best thing you can do is sing it out loud and hope it moves on to some innocent bystander. This past month, I’ve had a few that won’t go away.
For instance, about a month ago, I learned that our family home where I grew up was going to be torn down. This has happened to my family once before, but we are firm believers in the real estate mantra, ‘location, location, location.’ The buyer believed the lot was worth more than the house. To me, the house was still a perfect family home: four bedrooms, two baths, a kitchen, and living and dining rooms. The ‘great room’ was out the back door, which led to a very level yard where my mother insisted we go when she was tired of us (me, really) watching the ‘boob tube.’ But the people who bought the house decided it made more sense to start over than rehab. I get it. My husband is a contractor. The house has no historical significance, and it’s in a neighborhood where teardowns are common. But immediately, the song ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ by Joni Mitchell (remixed for you younger readers by Counting Crows) kept playing in my head: “ … you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” The problem is, our home was not paradise. It was not a mansion, and we didn’t have a pool or a dumbwaiter that we could stuff our friends into like they did on numerous TV shows in the ‘70s. It really was just where we lived.
My mind moved on and in popped The Talking Heads singing ‘Burning Down the House.’ “My house is out of the ordinary. That’s right! Don’t wanna hurt nobody. … Burning down the house.” If you really listen, it’s a pretty angry song. But fellow Target shoppers heard me singing it repeatedly the past few weeks. I just can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that the house will no longer exist.
Like a stalker, I occasionally drive by to see how far along the demolition is. So far, they have just ripped out the gardens, but soon, the house will be gone. And I, along with my siblings, want to be there when it comes down. I’ve found the perfect song for us to play as the bulldozers do their job: The Avett Brothers’ ‘Tear Down the House.’ “Tear down the house that I grew up in. I’ll never be the same again.” (If you aren’t familiar, give it a listen.) No, I will never be the same again, but with a lifetime of memories, five crazy siblings and a husband who could win millions at beat shazam, I can’t complain. I do hope the new owners occasionally hear an unknown group of people laughing. The house will be gone, but the love and laughter are likely to stick around.
Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.