"And Now, On With the Countdown"
The current of music’s reprise
The essence of music supplies
The change from within
The knowing again
Her waters in which we baptized.
“I love music. Any kind of music.” Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff.
Well, maybe not any kind of music. But when I was stumbling into my pre-adolescent years, when life in my home was swollen with alcohol, violence, and absence, when I was marinating in cortisol and adrenaline rather than the expectant sloshes of burgeoning testosterone, music cooled my fevered head. It was the mid-70s. A time I consider to be the pinnacle of great contemporary music. Every Saturday or Sunday afternoon (sometimes both), I tuned my transistor radio to WKZL 107.5, coming in stereo-clear, to hear three hours of Casey Kasem’s American Top 40. Indeed, this weekly show led by this inimitable DJ was my oasis, my Balm of Gilead.
Music soothes and inspires, energizes, binds, and bonds us to time, place, and people. But what is it about those early years in our lives that roots our connections to the music of that particular day? Roots so strong that we return for sustenance, time and again, for the rest of our lives. The music of these times buoyed each of us through transitions, turbulence, and morphing identities. Music, whatever a person’s particular tastes, was the constant against the uncertainty, the unknown, the ephemeral. For those with trauma and abuse histories, music was the anchor through the storms until we were old enough to flee and chart our own paths.
Thanks to the magic of our digital age, I can still catch those American Top 40 shows I cherished as a child. They are now called Casey Kasem’s Classic American Top 40, and I listen to them on my smartphone. Recently, I was on a hike with my partner Heather and our dogs, listening to a show from early June 1976. After the sixth or seventh song, I turned to her. “You know, I have not heard a bad song yet.” Nearly 50 years on, and I am right there once again, sitting on my back stoop, sweat beading on my temples, braced on my extended arms. I stare at the dappled June light through the scarlet oak branches in my backyard and hear my old friend’s light tenor. “You’re listening to the very best songs in the nation this week. I’m Casey Kasem. And now, on with the countdown.”