My parents bought me a car to drive about a year after I got my driver’s license. It wasn’t fancy, a Mustang II with an AM radio and a penchant for leaking oil and breaking down. When my brother got his license, my parents upgraded us to a green ’79 Mustang with tires too big for the wheel wells. They would scrape every time we went over a big bump or a dip. For a period of time, it had no radio. This was more maddening than only being restricted to the AM band, but some good came out of it. Before everyone had their licenses, we all piled in the cars of the few who could drive in order to get from here to there. We were smashed together, chattering all the way, laughing and gossiping. In other cars, music was the background or the foreground of our ride, but in my car we filled the silence ourselves. Driving a dark road to somewhere one night we fell silent until Eric burst into the opening notes of Gun’s and Roses Mr. Brownstone. We were all GnR fans, and knew every word, so we rode into the night, our drug-free bodies singing with great gusto about addition and touring and a life that nearly all of us would never lead.
Where I match a song to a specific memory.