Noise to Nostalgia

Each summer I attend a church girls' camp as a leader. It’s demanded that I attend the camp, not because they don’t have enough leaders, or because I’m the coolest leader there (I am, but that’s not why they want me), but it's because the girls and I have a stupid tradition. I wake them up in the morning.

Each year I bring my giant suitcase sized portable speaker and blast the girls awake with the same song: “Life Is Better With You” by Michael Franti. 

Same song. Same early hours. Same tradition year after year. Every morning there are groans, dramatic sighs, and at least one sleeping bag pulled completely over their heads in protest, yet they now associate that song with its upbeat tempo and encouraging words as the epitome of girls camp nostalgia. The older girls warn the newer girls of the waking up protocol and it’s now accepted and expected as our ritual. The song hasn’t changed in more than 8 years, but the perspective of what the song represents helps the girls shift into a mindset of belonging. They are experiencing the early wake up together, they are blasted by the repetitive tempo and rocked to their core as a collective group. They are all tired together and yet, because they’ve experienced this ritual together for years…it now brings the fond memories of the one week we spent together in the outdoors with bugs, hikes, sunshine, little sleep and a shared message that “Life is Better” because they are here with us. Often, when we play the slideshow of photos from the week and pair it with that song, the room feels joyful and collective. The song has become a part of girls camp. It no longer communicates annoyance. It communicates belonging and shared experiences, which feels pretty special.

This week’s readings were so timely. I just returned home from New Orleans and each night while traveling I had the opportunity to soak in the local music and culture there. Every street corner had performers, musicians and bands playing. It was amazing. I am not typically a jazz fan…don’t get me wrong, I appreciate jazz intellectually, but it is not what I reach for in my everyday listening. Yet in New Orleans, listening to live jazz in the city where it was born felt entirely transcendent. I wasn’t just listening to music. I was hearing soul, history, and culture. The genre that I usually skip on the radio felt meaningful and inspirational. With a backdrop of French, Caribbean, African and Creole influences in the architecture, food and general vibe, the music took on a different experience for me. This begs the question: What extent does music create meaning on its own, versus, how much of that meaning comes from the context, place, and relationships surrounding it?

This question becomes even more personal when I think about my son, who is in all state jazz choir. Jazz is still an acquired taste for me, but I love listening to him sing it. I hear effort, identity, and growth when he’s learning to scat with asynchronous rhythm. I love the music that he’s crooning, not because my music preferences have changed dramatically, but because of my son. The meaning is relational.

Sellnow’s concept of music as rhetoric helps explain this a little better. Music doesn’t just communicate personal taste or preference; it communicates rhetorically through shared emotional patterns. Adorno takes the pessimistic approach and would call this standardization or conditioning, but he probably wasn’t hugged enough as a child so I’m going to ignore him and take the optimistic view. Sometimes we don’t fall in love with the music itself. We fall in love with what emotions the music holds for us.