Music to My Ears

I came late to pop music. Grade school was about learning, high school about survival. (Anyone who attended a Catholic boys’ school in the 1960s knows what I mean). I didn’t start getting serious about the Beatles and company until the summer of 1970. Oh, Freda Payne with that band of gold of hers. The late start may explain why I still know more pop music than someone my age could be expected to. Drive with me, and you might just hear the latest from Lord Huron or Lake Street Dive. It’s not that I want to be hip or pretend I’m young; I’m not. I just enjoy listening to the likes of Beach Bunny. Good Chicago group, there. My daughter has something to do with this, too. Driving her to practice or tournaments got me into the habit of burning CDs; the oldest ones I have date to Napster. The earth has layers, and so does my CD collection: Clare from eighth grade; high school and college. Me, in all the years since. Lately, I’ve found myself driving to the hospital and/or Walgreens and/or a relative’s house because that’s what you do with the power of attorney. Not only are the CDs in constant rotation; more of them are getting added to the collection: John Lennon and Paul McCartney from their post-Beatles’ work, the greatest hits, or what I think are their greatest hits, from U2. A little Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats are up next, as soon as I get the time. Doing the U2 CD, I listened to “Desire” for the first time in a while. All I could think about was how this song used to play at the start of White Sox games against a montage of great plays and players shown on the Jumbotron. An Irishman sings to Harold Baines and Luke Appling. Carlton Fisk tags out two Yankees in one play at the plate. We’re looking to buy a new car in the spring. I have no idea how I’m going to survive without a CD player. For once, the old dog will have to learn new technology. Desire.