06/01/2023

Frisson on the Freeway

Growing up, my greatest education came from music. 

Like many Australian teens, I monopolized the TV on Saturday mornings to watch Rage and obsessively tuned in to Triple J to discover the best alternative bands. My favourite way to get to know a new band was during long car trips across my home state of Victoria.

For the better part of my schooling, the commute was 20 minutes each way, 30 if we caught the bus. Ample time for daily lessons in musical education and appreciation. For roughly an hour, I’d sit and watch the world go by as my iPod, full of pirated wonders, taught me about the world before me and ahead of me. Weekends and school holidays were for shared musical education. At thirteen, I’d raid  Mum and Dad’s cassette collection. After exposing me to The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd and Skyhooks, Dad took it upon himself to introduce me to Bob Dylan.

We were on our way to Geelong. Back then, the most common route was through Bacchus Marsh, a town nestled in the valleys of Moorabool Shire. Cars would cross the plains of Bacchus Marsh-Geelong road as we waited with bated breath for the freeway to eventually be completed. 

Highway 61 Revisited blared through the speakers of our silver Ford wagon. Dad explained the ironies of the lyrics in Ballad of a Thin Man, as we weaved through the town centre of Bacchus Marsh. Crossing the town’s limits, we watched the wide brown landscape unfold ahead of us, I felt some sort of magic. We'd sing the hook “something is happening but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr Jones?” and laugh as the lyrics grew more absurd.

Music had never been a shared experience like this before. I’d begrudgingly listen to The Monkees or Meatloaf from the comfort of the back seat on family trips to Yarrawonga, wishing we’d listen to Britney Spears instead. But that was when I was a kid; before I knew lyrics could be witty and that a chord progression could give me goosebumps.

It quickly became a point of bribery for Dad. As his work took him to various regional cities across the state, he’d tempt me to keep him company with the promise of a pitstop at JB Hi-Fi or a local record shop. He’d indulge me in a CD of my choice and we’d listen to whatever I’d picked out on our way home. My best choice of record was undoubtedly Regina Spektor’s album, Far, Dad liked that one almost as much as I did. 

My teens sent my love for music into full bloom. A highlight was when my siblings began playing in school orchestras and participating in competitions. We’d lose whole Saturdays to watching high school orchestras compete in Her Majesty’s Theatre in Ballarat. The theatre, now almost 150 years old, was the perfect setting for a cold winter’s day spent listening to classical music. We’d sit there bundled up, watching nervous kids pick up their instruments and perform on the historic stage. I’d get frisson as the string section swept into mezzo forte while Dad snored next to me.

As time went on, the trips became less frequent. Life shifted and changed as it does. My siblings began to lose interest in their cellos, I started spending more time with friends, and boyfriends, and my ambition turned towards getting my independence. Soon enough, I was the one driving, desperate to rack up hours ahead of my 18th birthday. Anytime I got in the driver’s seat, I’d try to recreate the magic of our Bob Dylan Geelong trip, but Modest Mouse and Bon Iver fell flat with Dad. 

During one driving lesson, he announced “wake me up when we get there,” from the passenger seat. We were somewhere between Daylesford and Ballarat and I was terrified. Climbing the hills and nervously pressing the brakes down the slopes of the country roads, I tried to get my head around where I was going and what I’d do if I hit a kangaroo. Somewhere between Dean and Clarke’s Hill, I realized he’d left me in the capable hands of Daylesford-Ballarat road and eventually we’d come across the freeway. 

A charming quality of my Dad’s is that he could sleep through a nuclear blast. So when I merged onto the Western Freeway with the stereo blaring, he didn’t so much as stir. It was only when we passed Pike’s Creek Reservoir, a good 15 minutes later, that he jolted awake. Dozily assessing our location and promptly going back to sleep, satisfied with my navigation skills. 
I felt a wave of freedom as I played both parts of DJ and driver. As we coasted along the freeway, I took in the rolling hills of Moorabool Shire once more with awe. To this day, driving through vast and vibrant landscapes while listening to great music fills me with joy. 

At the end of New Year's Day this year, I decided to break my habit of leaving clean laundry in the drier all week. I popped my headphones on and tuned in to NPR’s Regina Spektor: Tiny Desk Concert. The video had been sitting in my “watch later” playlist since August, but I had yet to find a good time to watch it over the last few months.

As I began to fold undies and pair socks, Regina Spektor sang and I relished in the memories tied to her old songs, like being on the noisy train to uni listening to Après-Moi and, of course, being on the freeway with Dad. 

Perhaps I had unintentionally left this video until I was in the right mindset to truly appreciate it. This small performance reignited my love for deeply listening to music, somewhere along the way life got louder and I had begun to ignore the magic of mindfully listening to my favourite artists.

Suddenly, I was reminded to listen again.

As we begin this new year, I encourage you to let 2023 be a lesson in listening. Let its ephemeral strangeness take over every now and then. Make time for the silence in between too. No matter where in the world I am, when I hear any song from Highway 61 Revisited, I’m back in that silver Ford wagon with my Dad, bound for Geelong. Where will an album take you this year?

Food For Thought

What was the last great album you listened to? Email me your answer.

“My biggest fear is losing memory because memory is what we are.”
― Nick Cave