On my visit to Door County last year, Patty’s beautiful
then-thirteen-year-old granddaughter Ella showed me a picture of her future
husband. Turns out he’s a member of the boy band One Direction. No surprise
there, since Ella’s a singer herself. In Ella’s bedroom I marveled at the
poster of the boys adorning the wall, as she pointed out—among other things—that
they all had good teeth even though they were British. I congratulated her on
her good taste. At the time I was only vaguely aware of One Direction, but I
have since become a fan and look forward to the wedding (although I know
thirteen-year-old girls can be fickle, and Ella might, by now, have another
husband in her sights).
Ella, right, with cousin and manager Emma—and One
Direction!
I was lucky enough to have been a teenager in the
sixties, in London—at that time the center of the universe—and therefore familiar
from the beginning with the ultimate boy band. Yep, the Beatles. Okay, they
were not the first boy band; in fact, they weren’t even called a boy band. But
sorry, as far as most of the English are concerned, it all started with John,
Paul, George, and Ringo.
When I was Ella’s age, I was going to marry George.
Paul was too pretty, John too smart, and Ringo . . . well,
Ringo was just the drummer and sat in the back. But George was perfect. A lot
has changed since then, and at some point I gave up my obsession with George,
and we both moved on.
But my conversation with Ella got me thinking about the
power and necessity of the boy bands and their ilk. And even more important, how
music defines our generations and a good tune can bring back heart-stopping
memories. I love a lot of today’s music, but I can get carried away by a good Journey
song or The Four Seasons just as easily as I can with Maroon 5, The Black Eyed
Peas, or . . . well, One Direction. Baby Love sung by Diana Ross and the Supremes takes me back to my
teenage years and Monday nights at the local dance hall. When I listen to a
Tina Turner song, I can see my sister dancing on a table at a Saturday night
party. And the crooning of Frank Sinatra recalls my parents slow-dancing in our
living room. Even though, at the time, it was a huge yuck, the memory of it is still
sweet.
The first time I sang The Star-Spangled Banner as a new American citizen, my heart was full.
Baseball games in Houston and singing Deep
in the Heart of Texas is a proud and joyous experience. When I hear the hymn
Jerusalem, I am moved with love for
England, my country of birth.
But my most recent memory of the power of music
came just last week. Neil Diamond at Fenway Park leading the crowd in the
chorus of Sweet Caroline in honor of
the victims of the Boston Marathon bombing. Boy, good times never seemed so
good.
Emma and Ella Makin’ Music Magic
