Music Induced Nostalgia

Today, Professor Marbury played several clips of music as examples in class today, all very entertaining. We heard the Destiny’s Child classic “Smells Like Teen Booty” and Eurotrash hit “Barbie Girl”, along with the always popular “Ice Ice Baby” (lamentably, class discussion did not touch on the infamous VH1 Behind the Music interview in which Vanilla attempts to deny the similarity between his song and David Bowie’s). Not all of it was painful, though: he also played the perfectly catchy JXL (I think that’s the right name) remake of the Elvis B-side “A Little Less Conversation” (which, incidentally, always reminds me of Lilo and Stitch even though I know perfectly well that it was on the Ocean’s Eleven soundtrack) and one of Finbar’s favorites, Cake’s remake of woman-scorned classic “I Will Survive”.

Whenever I hear Cake, I think of Finbar. It doesn’t matter which song it is—although some songs call up specific memories—anything by Cake makes me smile involuntarily. It’s a specific smile that one might call the “Finbar Smile”: a little bit softer than usual, more blush than usual in my cheeks, and a slight relaxation across my shoulders. It’s an expression that led my host mom to crow “Du glühst!” when I brought him “home” to meet them several years ago.

Finbar is an inveterate car dancer. One of our very first dates began with a wild freestyle interpretation of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Luckily, I’m a car singer—too lazy for car dancing most of the time, but I can and do belt out everything from opera to Nirvana. If I show up at your doorstep with a hoarse voice after a long car ride, you can bet that I’ve probably got Patty Griffin or showtunes in the car. I don’t care if the windows are down and Finbar doesn’t car if it’s broad daylight, so we’re well-matched.

Cake seems to bring out the master car dancer in him.

Just a few notes and my mind’s eye is filled with the visual of Finbar, dark sunglasses and hair, singing “He’s going the distance! He’s going for speeeeed!” And then there’s the time we were on our way back to Fatboy’s house after a hot Kroger date and it was dark and humid, the sun finally dipping below the horizon after a long summer day and the dark notes of “Sheep Go to Heaven” filled my car, sitting there at the red light, waiting to take off down the road. Even for those songs with no specific memory attached, the sound of John McCrea's voice immediately calls to mind the mischievous grin Finbar gets when he’s about to break into an especially wild bit of car dancing. Perhaps there’s something a little bit odd about me, but I find this particularly charming.