Pushing Thirty

     I knew what I was going to sit down and write about today.  I was going to get down my thanks to existence for small rituals like coffee in the morning.  But then I read that rock legend and pioneer Bo Diddley passed away at 79 and the proverbial upper case “WHAT!?!” complete with two exclamation points and a question mark keeps being the only thing running through my head. 

     See, I came into rock and roll proper kind of late in life.  With the exception of the Cocktail soundtrack I used to gyrate to spasticly as a little girl, my exposure was mainly church hymns, Catholic all-girls school glee club favorites, the classical and instrumental music we used for programs as a competitive figure skater, and musical soundtracks.  I remember my Dad playing folk-artists as a girl, singer-songwriters heavy on the James Taylor, Buddy Holly, Jim Croce, Carol King, Crystal Gale sorta vibe.  But modern rock and roll… it took me till I was nineteen to land at a Red Hot Chili Peppers show with the Foo Fighters opening. 

     Let me put it to you this way… the next morning I drove to New Hampshire with my six-foot-plus-Colombian-South-Boston-a la-Good Will Hunting-EMT-boyfriend and got a tattoo.  Yeah.  I was sold.

     There was something really rawley magical about what happened when the same hard-driving overwhelming beat was being pumped into every cell of every soul there under the setting sun.  It was just past primal on this side of human.  I had never experienced anything like it.  There I was standing on the hillside of what was still called Great Woods, and as I threw my head back and forth and found myself surrendering more and more to what I was hearing it was as if a whole other world opened.  It was like church, this coming together for a common purpose, to move to a common beat that commanded you to move.  My tattoo was just an outward mark of what had finally blossomed inside.  I was, essentially, reborn.

     From there it has been a matter of working myself through the decades of good stuff I didn’t know was there.  It was only about a month ago that I heard my first Bo Diddley.  And when I did it felt like finding the missing link between primates and humans.  I literally stumbled across the song “Bo Diddley” and spent about a full minute sitting alone in my apartment saying out-loud “whoa….. whoa……. oh my god…. whoa….. this is….. this is that beat…. whoa….. that explains a lot…. whoa…..”  It was a holy grail moment for me for sure. 

     The entire song forced itself ahead with the sort of cocky confidence that only rock can emit.  Between the shakers and the understated constant drum beat, the sparse lyrics, familiar and catchy, the guitar with that bad-boy-standing-on-a-corner vibe till the solo hits, just toyed with long enough to leave a sweet taste in your mouth, clear classic sound played with just the right amount of restraint to make you need more, it was the origin of everything that has ever made me love rock music. 

     It made me see why rock was considered so “dangerous.”  And let’s face it, I won’t deny it holds it’s own wonderful perils, but that song held that thing that would make the young people move in new ways, ways that reflected the sounds being pumped at them louder and more commanding than ever, ways that were by the sure primal aspects of that sound, suggestive….. gasp…..  No two ways around it, that sound hits the hips and doesn’t let go easy.

     I spent the rest of the day sending out thanks to Bo Diddley for having played that the first time way back when.  Without that vocalization of that sort of rock, the music landscape of today may have developed in a drastically different direction.  Although I do believe that that beat, that vibe, which can be found in tribal circles the world over and has been there for thousands of years, would have become amplified at some point, I’m thankful it did as it did and that it sounds so damn good. 

     Music has been the thing that has kept me alive more than any thing else.  It has brought me to the most incredible places, spawned countless adventures, surprised me more than I thought possible, and is what grounds me when all else fails.  It is one of the forms of creation that I can articulate my thoughts about, something which always seems just over the next rise for other such subjects.  It has given me hope and solace, let me cry when I needed it, gotten me to sleep at night, and started my engines in the morning.  In the chain of cause and effect, my life would be drastically different had it not been for Bo Diddley. 

     And what is to be done when one of the really truly greats moves on to the next adventure?  I like moments of silence.  I really do.  It lets me reflect, it lets me connect with respect and gratitude and compassion, it helps me move on and through.  But in the church of rock respect is paid a little differently.  I’m going to go get together a good old fashioned rock and roll play-list, heavy on the Bo Diddley.  I’m going to turn it way up so he can hear.  And you better believe I’m going to shake it like it’s meant to be shaken.