As one who believes you can learn more about a person by the music they listen to, the books they read, and the dreams they can only confess between the hours of 2 and 4 in the morning than through almost any other method of inquiry, I would hope that the soundtrack for my personal finale had some Really. Great. Songs.
My day would start off with something mellow, but chipper enough to get me to sway my way through the morning routine. The Weepies, along with Mumford & Sons and The Mountain Goats, would be employed to coax me out from under the covers. I'd dress under the watchful "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel (okay, I admit it, maybe "The Book of Love" too), and I'd brush my teeth in time to Phil Collins--most likely for the length of an entire album. With a second go at "Dance into the Light" for good measure. [Utterly unrelated note of unrelated-ness: you have no idea how long it took me figure out how to spell "coax." Underused and under-appreciated word of the day, check.]
To wake myself up further, but still careful to keep any unnecessary shock or bitterness a safe distance from my morning cereal bowl, I'd sprinkle some Huey Lewis and The News over my cheerios, spread some Billy Joel on my toast, and wash it all down with a tall glass of Sam Cooke.
With whatever morning hours remained I would seek out the Dylans, Jakob and Bob respectively. I'd riddle my way through "Yonder Come the Blues" and "My Back Pages" then savor the poetry of "Mr. Tambourine Man," "Blowin in the Wind," and "Positively 4th Street." I'd nod along knowingly to "Here Comes Now" and "Something Good This Way Comes," and for at least ten minutes solid I would repeat "Lay Down Your Weary Tune" over and over and over just to allow the gentle chords to sink into my marrow. And then I'd play it again.
Maybe after that I would permit some Dylan covers, just for the sake of artistic freedom. A few bars of Judy Collins. A few more of Miley Cyrus. And then--because, let's face it, I'll only die once--I'd revel in at least one (if not more) honest to goodness pop songs. Miley would be the gateway drug to Katy Perry, leading me down the nostalgic path into the past, full of Backstreet Boys ballads, Savage Garden songs and Avril Lavigne anthems. And I would not-so-secretly love each and every second of it.
After a rapid fire few minutes filled with Adele, Florence & The Machine, Alex Band and Agustana, Carbon Leaf would make an appearance. A subtle nod to the fact good music CAN be discovered by listening to the radio stations they play on repeat during international plane journeys.
The reminder of distance and time and the glory of travel would necessitate "Song of Freedom" by the BBC National Orchestra of Wales. This in turn could lead to a Classical interlude (most likely when I was not paying attention,) probably something by Holst or Mozart--something embarrassingly well known but still a little personal--"Pachelbel's Canon" or "Jupiter" maybe, but not for long and never on repeat, like many other songs I loved would do out of sheer habit. That is just the kind of person I was. repetitive. And not terribly fond of the blue-blooded classics. What could I say? Lyric. Junkie.
If there were Beethoven or Bach though, there would more than likely be The Beatles and The Beach Boys to bookend them back into the Land of Lyrics. Not for long, but long enough for my mouth to form the words absent-mindedly, head nodding along to tunes that were innocent and catchy and eternally lovable. "Here Comes the Sun" would mix and mingle with "Wouldn't It Be Nice" while "God Only Knows" would learn a thing or two from "Let It Be." "Penny Lane" would take the sting out of "Yesterday" and in the end "Hey Jude" and I would board the "Yellow Submarine" to the "Octopus' Garden" to soak up the genius of the ridiculous and to contemplate the ocean and the beach and the sun and the sky and England and California all at once until we decided to surface once more.
By this time it would be lunch or past it, so I would drive down familiar streets to snag the usual from the local place just around the corner, listening to the odd song by Bruce Springsteen, a constant reminder of classic Americana--as familiar as movie soundtracks and cruising with the windows rolled down in summer and the pride that can be felt by children so young they don't even know how to articulate it other than to say, "hey, I know this song. It's a great one" --would fill the air inside and under and above and all around the car stereo. And then the Goo Goo Dolls would rock a line or two, just because they could.
In the early afternoon it would be gloriously sunny outside, and there is just something about light and heat and the distinct type of happiness that comes with the warmth of summer sun that almost demands Country music. And I, never wanting to argue with things as they should and aught to have been, I would welcome the presence of late 90s and early 2000s era Tim McGraw with great pleasure, driving slowly back in the direction of home. I'd make it as far as the front porch when Blake Shelton would drop in like an old friend who brought nothing but an increase of good company and the ingredients for a jam session. Josh Turner and Brad Paisley could come alone for the ride and we would all spend hours swapping stories and songs until we noticed the voice of Zac Brown pouring into that day like spirits, strong and deep and powerful. It would be enough to make me aware of that extra layer of beauty that can only be seen on summer afternoons when bugs hang low in the air and something as pure and simple as the twang of a bow across fiddle strings brings all the pride and heart in a human soul to the surface of that which is intrinsically and undeniably American.
At some point my mind would lose the thread of the bigger picture though, and the simple and the trivial would be made manifest in the voice of Julie Andrews. Decades of theatrical incarnations would come alive as ever they did when I was a child, as if tattooed forever in my inner ear, unmatched in clarity and depth and joy. In the same vain, I imagine that a multitude of various show tunes would cross my path, bidden or not. (Fitting, too, I suppose, as many were the first songs I can remember loving.) "The King and I" and "Carousel," then "Les Mis," "Ragtime," and "Rent." "Wicked" and "Into the Woods" would be in the mix too, to add color and flavor. Hell, after first exposure to worlds where characters randomly burst into song, how could one not live a life designed to have its own score, lyrics and all?
Deeply entrenched in theatrics and history at this point I would have little choice--and indeed, no objection--but to welcome the echoes of a childhood full of Disney princesses, predictably and gaily humming along with Lea Solonga or Mandy Moore or Mrs. Potts as they warble familiar tunes.
As the afternoon wears on a few more random tidbits would doubtless make their presence known, if perhaps only for a few brief minutes. For example, a few WW1 cover songs, mostly vulgar renditions of hymns replaced with complaints about the army, would play. I could not even be sure why I liked them, but I really and truly did. And to redeem this quirk of fancy? At least one hymn or "christian pop" song would leave its mark. The un-summoned strains of "Amazing Grace," "Leaning on the Everlasting Arm," or "Come Thou Fount" might just escape my humming lips, or Sam Cooke might croon a spiritual through the smoke. Maybe Paul Robeson would make an appearance. Upbeat 90s revival songs could radiate through me, and I could remember that I knew them all once. And why.
An unaccompanied voice would break through the musical notes at some point. Maybe that of David Sedaris or Douglas Adams or Jim Dale or John Green or some stranger reading lines of dead poets. Their words would be gentle, yet entertaining. They would get in my head and my thought would wander from the place they were and not return for a undetermined period of time. It would not be relaxing, per se, but in their own voices, in their own scripted manner, each voice would speak the words of ME and I would find myself there.
And near the end of this period of self-realization, a classical lullaby or children's song might slip in somewhere, evidence of Peter Pan Syndrome or too many years of camp-song sing-alongs. It might be as simple as Peter, Paul and Mary's "Puff, the Magic Dragon" or "Found a Peanut," if not "All through the Night" or "Lavender Blue." But whatever it is, it would remind me of youth, and I would again be able to face the coming night.
In the early evening, around 5:00, say, the gentle, reassuring sound of Richard Shindell would break through the clouds that so easily build up inside my head. Whatever melancholy, worry, fear, loneliness or uncertainty that could be found hanging about would be cleared away like darkness scattered by drawing back heavy curtains. "On a Sea of Fleur de Lis" and "So Says the Whippoorwill" were and are and will always be the life-preservers of the musical world--big and wide and strong enough to support a life in the worst of storms.
To further banish any trace of doldrums and ensure I've worked up a good appetite, Bobby Darin would lead the charge into the evening hours, and maybe Frank would come too. If I remembered him in time. Juliette Greco would stand in a nearby corner and smoke. Big Bands would swing and I would sway to the tunes of time long gone by and dance in spite of myself.
For dinner I would have more than the recommended dosage of folk music from the 60s and 70s. My plate would be covered with John Denver. I'd take Heaping spoonfuls of Cat Stevens, with James Taylor dripping like gravy all over. Generous helpings of Fleetwood Mac, indulgently seasoned with CCR and garnished with Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I would have to have seconds of Paul Simon. At least three servings of Simon and Garfunkel. A sizable portion of Tom Paxton. An extra side of Pete Seeger. A splash of The Kingston Trio. (And, after everyone has left the room, I'd sneak some Dan Fogelberg.)
Dessert though, by its very nature, must never be politically active or get too emotional, so Jackson Browne would linger in the empty space between supper and sleeping--almost like wine held in the mouth--sweetly crooning "Tender is the Night" and "Sky Blue and Black" and "These Days" and "The Pretender" and "Everyman" and "Doctor My Eyes" and, as if to guide a soul from life into death, the lyrics of "Take It Easy" would direct me on my way, for the last time.
But even the last day needs its own kind of encore. Mine would have a distinctly Celtic sensation to it. For a good half hour at least (no doubt destined to stretch for a great many hours, through multiple rounds of drinks, and more than one barrel of firewood) the old favorites and the cheeky new versions, the jigs and anthems and ballads and epics and lullabies would aid to entertain and enlighten and unwind. The Dubliners. Runrig. Kate Rusby. Colcannon. Maybe even Celtic Thunder. Most assuredly The Corries and The Clancy Brothers. Someone would most definitely sing "Loch Lomond." Perhaps there would be a few renditions of "The Parting Glass."
And in those final hours? I would draw a bath in the tub, letting David Ford rise to the brim with the sweetly scented bubbles. I'd run my finger through my hair and lather my skin with Peter Bradley Adams. After splashing my face with the warmth Greg Holden would drip from my eyelashes. When I'd finally rise from the water I would wrap myself in cotton and Jay Brannan. And, when I had dressed in flannel for the very last time (though of course I cannot be sure of anything,) I would fondly hope that Ludovico Einaudi's score from Dr. Zhivago would play, slowly and gently until I, at last, knew the music no more.
