...and the four right chords can make me cry.

Hello all! Quite the delay in writing and posting as we wound down the school year and geared up for summer. I’m getting back in the swing of it now. Thanks for reading! - B

---

I wish I would have been paying attention to the exact age I was at the time I began to not only recognize, but enjoy the songs played in the background in random public locations. I’m sure it was gradual, but I didn’t notice. I imagine it started with one song that I really liked mixed in with a bunch of songs I vaguely knew or didn’t care for. Then, I’m assuming, it progressed to more of a “hey I used to love this song” mixed in with a handful of songs I moderately liked. 

What it is now, of course, is one banger after another; a collection of songs from CD’s that at one point in the early 2000s, sat in a giant booklet of CD sleeves in my car. I, of course, could be found dangerously switching these CDs in and out while driving, holding the steering wheel with my knees and licking the bottom of CDs that skipped too much, hoping they’d get through my favorite song before I got to my destination, where, before exiting the car, I of course, took the front of my CD player off and stored it in my glove box. 

You know, cause it was 2002 baby. 

Currently, in America, there are two primary locations for one to unashamedly enjoy the songs of yesteryear. One location is for your weekly listening pleasure, the other requires a bit more planning, but oh is it worth it. Both locations take your money, but only one gives you something in return. Either way, if it’s great 90s music you’re after, look no further than the grocery store and the Las Vegas Strip. 

These days, the closest I get to enjoying song after song without fail is my local grocery store. This fine establishment is the place to be if you are a child of 90’s music. The people love it. You can see it as you walk the aisles. Moms and dads try to keep it cool, but they can’t help but lip sync, or drum on their carts, or actually sing quietly to themselves as the hits keep a rollin. Often, you’ll get the whistler, not quite brave enough to sing, but damn sure brave enough to carry that tune via the whistle. Every now and again, and I’m talking rarely but magically, you’ll get the lady who is singing harmony just loud enough to let you know she’s there. 

There’s the head bobbers, those folks who are involuntarily vibing as they search for the right salad dressing. You’ll also get the almost-dancing-but-knows-they're-at-the-store-so-keep-it-together-Carrie lady, who I would never emulate, but I love seeing in the wild. 

As a child, I remember being with my mom as she heard Styx, The Police, and REO Speedwagon in the grocery store. My mom was a quiet store singer. I remember thinking that those songs were so old, and I couldn’t believe she knew one song, let alone every song that came over the speakers. As tends to happen, I am now the guy who knows the songs at the grocery store, and my kids think I am Cro Magnon man’s contemporary. 

Similarly, the Las Vegas Strip in the early morning is about as good as it gets for me. I don’t know what time the street performers, folks who hand out the escort cards, or highly intoxicated people clear out, nor do I know what time the old guy who has seemingly been jogging for several hours by 7am gets his start. What I do know is that the window of time between the setting of the sin and the waking of the exercise is the best time to fully appreciate the beauty of Las Vegas Blvd. The tunes are on point, and the weather is just perfect 

For me, the best time to appreciate the strip is approximately 6:30-8 o'clock in the morning, and the best place to have a nice walk is near the intersection of Las Vegas Blvd and Flamingo Rd. More specifically, in front of the Bellagio fountains headed either north or south. Find a way across the street and cruise by the Linq and up to Paris. From there, do what you want, but I don’t like going past Planet Hollywood or the Cosmo to the south, nor do I like going past the Venetian or the Mirage to the north, but that’s just me and I am often grumpy and particular for no apparent reason.

Of course, it is between these cross streets that the music is magical. Ask anyone between the ages of 35-45, and they’ll agree. I remember the very first time I went to Vegas. We stayed at Caesar's and through a series of strange events, were driven to the hotel from the airport in a limo at 7 o'clock in the morning. Like a scene from a movie, when the limo door was opened and I stepped out, “Mr. Jones,” was playing from nowhere and everywhere. I knew I was in the right place, and practically begged Caesar’s to take my money, which they gladly did. 

It is my insistence on visiting The Strip during the few hours of traditional humanity that leads me to book the 5:40 am flight out of Kansas City, arriving in Las Vegas at 6:30am nearly every time I visit. It’s like a private viewing of the city at that time of day. When we were there last February for my son’s flag football tournament, I insisted, via the parent group chat, that we all take the earliest flights available, and was even more insistent regarding a breakfast place to soften the blow of the early flight. No one my age was disappointed (at least to my face), and I caught several parents singing along to the steady flow of 90s happiness. 

Vegas through the eyes of a team of nationally qualified 12-14 year old male football players is quite the thing. There’s no attention to the killer Gin Blossoms or Dishwalla tune accompanying their every footstep. If anything, they’re confused at the genial disposition that arises in my generation upon hearing a song such as “Hold my Hand” or “This is How We Do It.” Of course, they wouldn’t be able to fully hear or appreciate any music being played over speakers due to the single Airpod that remains steadfastly secured in the right ear of every boy in the group. 

I can’t be mad about the constant stream of music in the single Airpod. I remember my first DiscMan and the precarious way it had to be held in order for the CD not to skip while playing. Mine was one of those Sony waterproof ones, the one with bright yellow padding indicating that you could fling that bad boy across the pool, skipping like a stone, and not miss a beat of Stone Temple Pilots along the way. If given the chance, I would have listened to that without ceasing the way the teens of this day and age do with their phones and Airpods. 

I snuck some brief moments of alone time in between flag football games, and on more than one occasion, found myself walking along the sidewalk in front of the Bellagio in the early morning. I was not quite engulfed in 90s music, instead appreciating the trees and Italian architecture and daydreaming about what I think a European city from 100 years ago may have looked like. Men in suits and top hats, carrying canes and wearing monocles. Women in fancy dresses and umbrellas to shield them from the sun. Meanwhile, I was wearing the same Kansas City Chiefs hoodie for the second day in a row and some black joggers I got from Costco. How ashamed those figures from the past would have been if they were to see me in that state. How appalled would they be to hear the music that has meant so much to me over the years. What would Debussy think of Cobain?

Walking back to the hotel, coffee in hand, doing my best to dodge escort flyers that had somehow escaped the street cleaner’s broom, I am now thinking of Debussy, his piano, and his opium. This one man unlocked the door for modern music. He said “fuck it” to the rules of the day and created masterpieces, inspiring future generations, among them, Scott Joplin who used  Debussy’s influence to fuel his ragtime tunes. Joplin inspired (among others) Woody Guthrie, who would have heard Joplin’s music in the midwest as a child. Woody, of course, inspired many, including Little Richard and Elvis. It goes without saying that Little Richard and Elvis created what we refer to as Rock and Roll, inspiring The Beatles, who inspired everyone, including Kurt Cobain. 

Thoughts drift quickly in Vegas, by design I’m sure. If one has too much time to think, they’ll realize they’re spending money on nonsense. I had just connected the dots between French Impressionism and Seattle Grunge when my thoughts were torn to the tasks of the day, refilling coffee, and getting back to the hotel to wake up my son. I walked slowly, taking in the desert morning, dodging joggers, and mumbling the lyrics to “Semi-Charmed Life” under my breath.