We are often told that our sense of smell is the means of perception most closely associated with memory. For instance, for me, “childhood” smells like the hot vinyl upholstery of a 1980 Caprice, Ivory soap, and slightly stale Cheerios. “Fall” evokes the smell of burning leaves, and “college” smells like a particularly over-sweetened latte. You (almost literally) get the picture.
Lately, however, I’ve noticed how many of my memories have a soundtrack. Not just a soundtrack of ambient sounds, or like a montage in a film, but particular songs have the ability to transport me back to a specific time and place, and open a window into who I was at that moment.
This phenomenon came to my attention recently when I reached into the deeper recesses of my music collection for some new commuting music. My twenty minute sojourn to my office is my last slice of free mental energy before the drudgery of the workday, and the return trip is my decompression chamber before a return to real life. But as soon as I slipped the disc for the Snatch movie soundtrack into my stereo, the drive, and the route suddenly changed.
I was transported to southern California, 2006. I was now behind the wheel of a gleaming red Dodge Magnum station wagon, careening down the 101 at a speed that almost matched the highway’s number. It was nearly midnight as I returned to my hotel in Anaheim, and my adrenaline was pumping along with the glitchy, thundering techno of the soundtrack. It’s impossible to drive slowly to this music.
I’d left Santa Barbara an hour before, leaving behind my high school crush and her recently minted fiancée. She and I had shared a celebratory dinner near her college on my expense account, and she’d discussed wedding plans and how much she enjoyed his family. I couldn’t have been happier for her; time since high school had proven our fundamental incompatibility, so there were no lingering hard feelings.
My expense account had also purchased the Snatch soundtrack, which accompanied me around the greater Los Angeles area that week. At the time, I was working in sales, and when I travelled (which was often) I had a habit of driving straight from the rental car pickup location to the closest place to purchase music that I could find. Subsequently, every trip brought home a new album along with a new batch of sales.
So as I listened to Massive Attack’s “Angel”, I almost missed the exit for my office, and I could well have continued on Interstate 10 all the way back to the City of Angels. Brought back to reality, I considered the differences between my 2011 and 2006 selves. No longer selling, no longer travelling for business, of course, but more subtle differences, too. The momentum that sent me hurtling back to my hotel in Anaheim, and bouncing like a pinball between coasts and relationships and jobs has slowed considerably, too. But the inspiration of the bass and drums still makes it difficult to maintain the speed limit.
I began to consider the other albums accumulated in my travels, too. How The Zuton’s “Who Killed The Zutons?” takes me back to the piney woods outside Jacksonville, the day after the overwhelmed north Florida burgh had hosted its only Super Bowl. I arrived to a shell-shocked crowd of morose Eagles fans and rejoicing Patriots fans (who were just approaching their zenith of obnoxiousness), had one early morning meeting, and had to waste the rest of the day until my flight departed.
I saw Jacksonville from one city limit sign to the other, with the blaring clarinet and nasal harmony of The Zutons keeping me on edge. I almost accidentally drove into Georgia as the pines grew so close together that I lost track of time. I briefly panicked, remembering the somber rental car clerk who’d asked me accusingly if I planned on driving out of state. I found the first exit I could, and high tailed it back to the airport.
Another album was acquired when I became stranded in the smallish east Texas town of Tyler. My boss and I had flown up early in the morning for a nine o’clock meeting, which had wrapped quickly enough for us to return to the airport for the morning’s only flight back to Houston. There was only one standby seat available, and I certainly couldn’t pull rank in this situation. I fished the car keys out of the return box, and made my way over to the sad little shopping mall. I overpayed for The White Stripes’ “White Blood Cells” at Sam Goody, and went bombing down backroads until my afternoon departure, Jack White’s snarling guitar and petulant voice giving expression to my frustration.
In Tampa, Outkast’s “Speakerboxx/Love Below” double CD provided the much-needed running time after I failed to realize how far apart Tampa and its sister St. Petersburg are, and how setting appointments on the same day on both sides of the bay bridge that separates them is probably not a great idea.
All these memories are relics of a time in my life typified by searching, wandering, and a lack of solid grounding. Hearing these songs now is not always pleasantly nostalgic; regret buzzes faintly in the background, too. But reminders of these times are healthy. They remind me of the grace that brought me to where I am now. They recall immaturity, but also growth and discovery, both of musical and life varieties.
So take this challenge: dig into your box of CDs, or sort your iTunes library by date added, find the oldest purchases, and reflect as you listen to them. Who were you when you bought this music? (Is it old enough that you actually got it on Napster?) What does the music itself say about you at that time? Lord knows, the percentage of my music catalog occupied by metal and emo has dropped precipitously. Where does the music take you? Back to junior high or college? Prom or your first job? I could write a whole thesis on the impact Snoop Doggy Dogg’s “Doggystyle” had on my first high school job, but I’ll spare you, gentle reader.
A well-selected soundtrack can elevate a meager narrative, ho-hum acting, or clunky dialogue in our favorite shows and movies. Our soundtracks are more complex, and not always as flattering, but they tell a story in tones that are just as vivid. Listen closely.