#DYING LIGHT THE FOLLOWING RADIO BOY HOW TO#
I wanted to learn how to bring on that aching like Elvis singing “Old Shep,” Michael Jackson singing “Ben,” (from the movie of the same name-good gravy, a young musician with a rat as his pet, and yes, spoiler alert, in the movie the rat dies), and Henry Gross singing “Shannon” written about Beach Boy Brian Wilson’s dead dog (Yes, I had a thing for songs written about dying animals, still do!). I studied pathos in songs-didn’t have the word for it until I was in college, but I could feel it. This curiosity led to my first desire to write my own stories. Sometimes I’d go for days wondering … It was my first taste of literary analysis, of understanding the elements of story. Was the hotel actually Hell? What is that “warm smell of colitas” and what are those “mission bells”? My siblings, my friends, and I deconstructed the lyrics together, making attempts at meaning. I may not have been able to memorize lines from the Canterbury Tales or The Declaration of Independence or Poe’s “Annabelle Lee,” but I still remember the entirety of “Devil Went Down to Georgia” and “Hotel California.” Songs like The Eagles’s “Hotel California” taught me the effectiveness of place, concrete detail, metaphor. I can’t remember many paragraphs from books I’ve loved, ones I’ve read and taught time and time again. I just knew that with one Carly Simon song, I not only learned the meanings of “vain,” “yacht,” “gavotte,” “eclipse,” “naïve,” “lear jet,” I found, on our spinning globe, the Saratoga and Nova Scotia she mentioned in “You’re So Vain.” And I was obsessed.
Back then, I hadn’t yet heard of so-called “high” and “low” art, of pop culture and the cultured elite back then, no one knew Dylan would win the Nobel or they would teach his lyrics at the Ivys. Through songs, I built my lexicon as well as my early story craft. Instead, it was music that made me a writer.
#DYING LIGHT THE FOLLOWING RADIO BOY FREE#
And those who lived too far out didn’t have access to free public library cards only kids in town did. A bookmobile showed up each month, depending on the weather, but it’s nearly impossible to learn the art of browsing stacks when others are waiting for their turns, when there’s no lingering allowed. Elementary schools shared a traveling librarian who’d cart books in her car. Like many young kids in urban settings, those from my rural western Pennsylvania community had limited library exposure some of us never stepped foot in a real library until junior high. The effect of listening to music is particularly powerful: we are laying down the tracks along which we’ll respond to music for decades to come.
Librarians are doing their best to clarify the specific needs of those in rural America and then developing ways to meet them despite lack of funding and support, but there is still much to improve. Recent studies of rural communities and education have also shown that rural America, like urban America, is diverse in economics, race, and lifestyle, recognizing there are categories of rural-“fringe,” “distant,” and “remote”-with unique needs. So, bookstore owners, music store owners like Gene, and librarians hold the keys to powerful experiences for Americans who are cut off by geography. Neuroscientists and researchers, studying neural pathways with the help of music and MRIs, have proven that in adolescence, the effect of listening to music is particularly powerful: we are laying down the tracks along which we’ll respond to music for decades to come. I knew it then, and in countless ways I’m sure of it now. I spent hours memorizing lyrics of my dad’s favorites, “Boy Named Sue” from Johnny Cash’s At San Quentin album, all of Hank William’s hits, Patsy Cline’s.Īfter I learned to read, I pored over liner notes, transcribing lyrics, gingerly lifting the needle to replay and replay until I got the words just right as this was important work, learning this kind of storytelling. We might not have been a reading family with shelves of books, but we had a modest yet amazing collection of records. Though my blue-collar family struggled between layoffs, we owned a stereo console cabinet with good solid speakers. He’d play a tune if you asked for a sample, handling the vinyl like blown glass.
Gene was a near-twin to Wolfman Jack, the well-known thick-haired, bearded disc jockey of the 70s, but Gene was quieter, more contemplative. Behind the counter 45s hung on a massive peg board and hundreds more LPs seemed to be waiting on the shelves, readying to be flipped through. At Gene’s Music City, albums covered in sagging plastic wrap lined three walls.
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