My Music Friend

I've never really had a music friend before.  I've had friends who shared a mutual affection (read: obsession in the case of U2 and my bestie, Megan) for a band or singer.  And I've gone to concerts with boyfriends or boys-who-are-friends and had a few too many beers lounging on grassy lawns listening to who-knows-who do a sound check. I've managed to drag a host of people to Dulono's for bluegrass and a few actually agree to be dragged again.

But I've never had a buddy who loved pretty much everything I love about music.  Kim is the first. Now, we diverge in some ways.  Kim has not yet been schooled on the awesomeness that exists in much of country music, her experience having been tainted by some too-poppy quasi-country hacks. But she respects Tammy Wynette so she can't be a total lost cause.

And my tastes can run a bit more mellow than Kim's on occasion.  I can spend a good month of my life dedicated to the National and emerge without feeling too suicidal, and I think maybe that would drive Kim to madness.

But my best music memories in the Twin Cities have been with Kim, slightly divergent tastes notwithstanding.  The important aspect of our balance is that we both, quite simply, want to be THERE. The radio is nice, CDs are nice, iPods are nice.  But whenever possible, whenever tickets aren't exorbitantly expensive (and sometimes when they are), whenever we can justify a week night outing that will result in a painful weekday morning, we want to be there.

We joked last night that we're rather doomed by the weather.  Every show we've seen has been cursed by some facet of awfulness in that regard.  The first show we saw together, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, was one of the more disgusting concert experiences of my life.  It had to have been 95, 80% humidity, and the venue was packed.  We squeezed as close as we could to the front (Kim is a squeezer, moreso than I, but her habit has rubbed off on me and now I want to shimmy as close as I can to the stage).  The smell of pot and patchouli was enough to make the beers we were drinking somewhat superfluous, but drinking water would have been lame. I was wearing a short skirt and a thin tshirt and within 20 minutes both were soaked with sweat. All we did was dance, laugh, and comment on how amazingly unattractive we'd both become.  At the end of the set, when everyone was drunk and soaked in sweat, the lead singer, Alexander, had the brilliant idea that we should all sit down. This was not a soft, grassy field.  This was a beat-up, needed-to-be-repaved-30-years-ago lot full of bodies too bunched together for what would become a sit down.  But slowly everyone maneuvered.  I was standing next to some kid in his early 20s who was clearly enjoying some sort of herbal experience and he patted his knee and said, "don't worry, just sit on my lap."  So I half-sat on an infant's lap and half-sat on pavement that left tiny pieces of concrete on my thigh when I stood up.  By the time Kim and I wandered back to her car, we were exhausted, danced out, and in desperate need of a showers.  And I have never enjoyed a show so much.

We've seen other bands, too, many in equally hot and steamy environments (considering how rarely it gets like that up here it does seem odd that Kim and I manage to pick the concerts that boil), and some in the rain (Rock the Garden 2011), and some in both (Bastille Day block party). Sometimes the bands have been amazing, sometimes they've been okay, sometimes there have been surprises (I had no idea HarMar Superstar resembled Homer Simpson).  But what I love about Kim is that she's up for all of it, all of the imperfection of live performance, coupled with the excitement of hearing voices you love sing songs you love.

And I think mutual musical affection is a key connecting point for me, perhaps moreso as I get older.  There are seasons of your life that feel impossible to describe.  But if I tell Kim I have been listening to Bon Iver nonstop for a month, I know, in some small but not insignificant way, that she knows what the month feels like for me, what comfort I require, what music makes the days a bit more palatable.  And vice versa.  There's a communication possible in music choice and attachment that transcends "how was your day?" and gives a fuller picture of the answer than "it was okay."

I know, on her bad days, Kim needs to hear something with a beat worth dancing to, even if she isn't up to it.  And she needs music you can eat soup to, with her pup in her lap, that makes the stress feel less insurmountable and the question marks of everyday life a little less daunting.  And Kim knows that on my bad days, I just need some The National playing in the background, and I need a text message reminding me that David Bowie exists.