Last Sunday was stake conference in my Latter-day Saint community. For Mormons of my caliber, stake conference is regarded as a “Get Out of Church Free Day.”
I’m not needed in my congregation’s library and therefore won’t disappoint anyone if I give it a pass. Conversely, most of my Latter-day Saint neighbors are at the stake center, which is some distance away.
This affords me the perfect opportunity to shoot off a couple of smaller cannons from my driveway without intruding upon the holiness of their Sabbath.
Note: Unless, of course, they ditched stake conference as well. Then the holiness of their Sabbath is already shot.
But you can’t shoot artillery without a proper soundtrack. On Sunday, it was a band most noted for my smaller-caliber days. When my ward grandsons Ryan and Ethan Clegg (who were supposed to be at stake conference, too, but weren’t) saw me setting up. They ran over.
Before we started firing, I asked them to name the band and song playing on the box. Both Ryan and Ethan shrugged.
Me • “You morons. That’s ZZ Top. You know? Bill, Frank, Dusty? They’re singing ‘I Woke Up With …’ Well, never mind. Here’s your dad and mom.”
Ben and Kelly didn’t know who ZZ Top was either. I suddenly felt like the smartest and most cultured person on the planet. It was sad. I almost started crying. Was it possible that people didn’t know who ZZ Top was?
Like most people, my life is backdropped by the magic of the music. The Doors, Credence, Hendrix, Cream. Fire up any of those groups and I’m back in high school, even if only for a couple of seconds.
The Eagles, Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, ZZ Top are all it takes to transport me back to the Army, a mission, marriage and framing houses. “Say You Love Me” feels like holding my first born.
Springsteen, Def Leppard, Journey and Heart take me back to police night watch, driving around, waiting for something bad to happen. “Dancing in the Dark” always reminds me of almost getting killed.
By 1990, the changes in my life’s soundtrack started to slow down. I’m reminded of those early days as a writer by the Foo Fighters, Scorpions and Chris Isaak.
Then came the new millennium and things started to reverse. It was increasingly difficult to find music that suited my changing life. Kriss Kross, Michael Bolton, Color Me Badd, New Kids on the Block — I can’t remember any of their songs.
Maybe it’s because, on the downhill side of my life, I identify more with the music that inspired me or made me feel alive.
Shooting cannons (or whatever it is you do to make yourself feel alive again) requires the right tunes.
Coolio, Snoop Dogg, Kanye, Tupac and Boyz II Men or even the most modern pop tune just doesn’t seem to evoke the outlaw in me. It’s noise.
Maybe that’s why I turned to the blues after Y2K. I needed something that made the loss feel better.
One of these days I’ll hear the last song of my life. Please, God, don’t let it be a commercial jingle.
I hope the last song I hear isn’t one that makes me glad to be dead. I’d rather it were one that makes me happy to have lived.
Robert Kirby is The Salt Lake Tribune’s humor columnist. Follow Kirby on Facebook.
