Your Song

 Phil Collins used to refer to "that song," the one that he performed on both sides of the Atlantic during the day-long Live Aid concert back in 1985. If you don't have a recollection of Mister Collins or his music, be assured that the term ubiquitous was coined for his presence on the music scene in the mid eighties. He was the only performer to appear both in London and in Philadelphia that day. And in case there should be any mistake, he played his signature song, "In The Air Tonight," on both sides of the pond. Phil was Elvis two years before Mojo Nixon decided it was Mister Presley that was everywhere. 

But I didn't drag you here to talk about Phil Collins. Instead, this is about a song that was endemic for me and the mix tapes I made. It started out simply enough. My high school girlfriend mentioned that a song by Jimmy Buffett from his Volcano album reminded her of one of the stories she wrote. That song was Chanson Pour Les Petits Enfants. It was a departure for Mister Buffett, known primarily for his odes to mixed drinks and the challenges of dealing with their after-effects. "Chanson" was a lullaby of sorts, and I began to slide it in to most every mix tape that I made for her, along with whatever new music I happened to be sharing at the moment. At one point, that song callously got left out of the playlist and I was asked why it was omitted. I made a point of squeezing it in from then on. On every tape. 

And there were a lot of them. 

Ninety minutes of a potpourri of the tunes of the day, with that familiar refrain just to keep it personal. 

But like so many things good, I may have overdone it. Now, in another century, listening to those tapes and converting them to digital files for posterity, it became apparent that that poor little song had suffered and withered from overexposure. With all the songs available to us in this world full of sounds and rhythms, how had I managed to crush the life out of this happy little ditty? 

I am guilty of the crime of death by repetition. It shows up in my writing, my comedy, and yes in my music tastes. I will drag out "that song" until someone says "stop." And all these years later, that request came oh-so-politely from my high school girlfriend from our past to our present, where we stay in touch and sometimes reflect on the what things used to be. Just a little embarrassed, I made note of the way I simply could not let a good thing go. 

Of course, the magic here is that I don't have to. It's always there, if I want to hear it. If I want to share it. If I want to remember that time. 

I can also push the fast forward button. There's got to be a Phil Collins song on there somewhere.