A friend told me the other day that the best part of aging is reclaiming the things we abandoned as adults but loved in our childhood. She wasn’t talking about simple nostalgia. Instead, it was about remembering the things that brought us joy and picking up and carrying them forward.
The idea has stuck with me, and it has helped me understand some of the choices I’ve made of late.
I have a joyful, visceral memory of riding my 10-speed down a country road as the fireflies are coming out in the gloaming of a summer day. There is an exuberance in the freedom and independence I felt as I pedal along. That vision brought me back to the bike in my fifties, and a new kind of freedom and joy has sprung from that joy of being on a bike. I feel something of it when I go out for my daily ride, but touring brings it about fully.
The love of my childhood home led me down another path. Stories of secession and the Underground Railroad were told about the tunnel in the house’s basement around the tiny little town in Western New York, but I just accepted what I’d heard as a normal thing. As an adult, I started to dig a little and found layer upon layer of weirdness. I have described it as akin to finding the passage at the back of the wardrobe for C.S. Lewis’ heroes—a mundane landscape suddenly turned magical by its unique history. It led to me publishing a novel.
A Hell of a Drug
But nostalgia can also be a trap leading to stagnation.
Our current media is driven by exploiting the urge. The movie industry is mired in repetition as it cranks out release after release based on comic books or Saturday morning cartoons from fifty years ago. There are measurable segments of our population that are so ossified in their memories that they spend hours of their wild and precious lives debating whether Superman should wear briefs. All of Hollywood is scouring the face of the earth for the pre-branded IP that will be the next MCU, but few are interested in something fresh.
What’s Old Is Old Again
The record labels are even worse. Currently, they are spending billions acquiring the rights to music that topped the charts in the sixties. Their future revenue stream will be based on nothing but new packaging of old albums and revenue from drug commercials.
I’ll admit that I’ve contributed to that monster. Most of my teen years were spent focused on rock and roll. I worked in record stores, collected thousands of records, and even memorized catalog numbers. I happily spent long afternoons scouring the bins at local stores and sought out legendary stores when I travelled. And yes, I made a few legendary mix tapes. I was forever on the lookout for the next great cut. But as I moved through my twenties and into my thirties, the new music I found didn’t bring the same thrill, the same punch. It was harder to sort through the dross, and the good stuff didn’t do as much for me. I concede that talented musicians have been making good rock and roll records all along, but when I ventured out for new stuff, it just didn’t land.
I left the hunt behind and spent my time listening to the music I already knew. My field of interest narrowed day by day. There was nothing new under the sun. But like a needle stuck in a groove, I just needed a little nudge to move on.
When I was finishing up my Rhine bike tour last summer, I spent a couple of days exploring Amsterdam. Part of my planned reward for finishing the ride was to see a Bruce Springsteen concert scheduled for the time I was there.
I’d never seen The Boss, but I know that his shows are considered to be the pinnacle of rock and roll these days. I’d thought about seeing him here in Atlanta a few times, but ticket prices approached mortgage payments and I just couldn’t do it.
But he was playing at a venue south of Amsterdam and tickets could be had for the cost of a fancy hamburger or a reasonable steak.
No Hands Were Strapped Across Any Engines
I’d been building up the show in my head, texting regularly with an old friend who occasionally works for Springsteen. But when the night of the show came, I just couldn’t do it. The lines. The crowds. The security. The whole thing felt like an obligation I didn’t want to fulfill.
Instead, I went looking for jazz. I ended up on a hotel patio beside a quiet canal, listening to a Brazilian duo. The lead was a barefoot female singer who played a cello, looped her voice, and sang in Portuguese when she wasn’t scatting.
I don’t know how Bruce’s show was that night, but I know it wasn’t as good. My heart was with the beauty that is great jazz.
I’d been listening to more jazz in general, but it had happened incidentally. At first, it was something to put on in the background during dinner. Then I started paying more attention. If I found a crate of records at an estate sale, I’d flip through them quickly, seeing all the same rock stuff. If there was any jazz, though, I’d slow down and take a few home.
My tastes have evolved. Whether it’s finding great moments buried in the Cannonball Adderley catalog or watching out for the latest release from Teus Nobel, I feel like there’s a great undiscovered country to be explored. Of course, in a world of instant downloads, there’s no longer that thrill in finding the missing b-side single.
I still listen to some rock. And I’m working through the absurdly comprehensive History of Rock Music in 500 Songs podcast, but exploration and discovery is happening elsewhere. I am ever-vigilant for Ted Gioia’s occasional music recommendations.
And although I listen to a lot of vintage jazz, it’s not nostalgia driving that process. It all feels like discovery to me.
Song of the Week
I’m not sure how I first encountered Teus Nobel, but this record stops me in my tracks whenever I hear it. He’s a Dutch horn player, more likely to be on trumpet but open to the flugelhorn on occasion.
He sounds absolutely fresh to me while also living in the traditional bebop space.