Nope … nope … nope … nope … .
Unless I’m listening to an album or something I sought out, I have a very strong skipping finger when my phone is shuffling through the songs on my iTunes playlist.
It doesn’t make a lot of sense. Theoretically, I shouldn’t ever want to skip a song, since — minus a certain U2 album I haven’t figured out how to excise yet — I chose them all.
But most of the time I scroll until something strikes my (usually undefined at that moment) fancy.
Nope … nope … wait, stop … go back.
Once upon a time, I would have been as excited to hear of a new Celine Dion album as I am today over something new from Kacey Musgraves, Josh Groban, Maren Morris or Maggie Rogers … or would be if Sugarland ever decided to make music again.
Her music dates back to when I actually listened to cassettes, and a quick check of our CD collection shows we have seven of her albums. However, when my phone became my main music source, I just transferred a couple handfuls of songs.
But a few months ago, once I got over the angst of her “Taking Chances” tour film being something PBS would show to raise money (in other words, I’m old) — and my father-in-law playing said film at airplane-takeoff volume while I was trying to sleep — it reminded me … her best stuff was really good.
So in that moment driving home from work, skipping her felt … disrespectful.
And I decided I wanted to go back to the beginning.
It was January 1991.
I was on winter break from college, and my father got me a job as a bus monitor for developmentally disabled people. The bus headquarters was in the same lot as where he worked, so we’d go in together in the morning and then ride home together at night.
In the mornings, I’d help the clients get on when we picked them up at their homes, make sure they stayed safe on the bus and then helped them get into the day facility. We’d reverse the process in the afternoon.
My mom’s aunt and uncle lived about five minutes from where my dad worked, so I’d spend the several hours between pickups there. I’d let myself in, eat lunch and chill out.
They had cable. I did not have cable. Those were the days MTV and VH1 actually played music videos. (To those reading this who weren’t born in 1991, you’ll just have to trust me.)
And one of the videos that was on a lot was “Where Does My Heart Beat Now,” since it was pretty new.
I knew the song, really liked it, knew it was by some young Canadian named Celine Dion (she’s four years older than me) who apparently had never sung in English before.
So that’s what she looked like.
That’s the album I was looking for.
The only problem was … I couldn’t remember its name.
Fortunately, Google is great; it’s “Unison.”
The cassette is buried somewhere, but even if I could find it, I don’t even know where I could play it unless I hooked up my old stereo, which I think is in the basement, maybe?
Instead, I downloaded it, and listened on my way home from work. I wasn’t in a particularly good mood, so I had to tell myself to relax and just take in the music.
So, 33 years later (gulp) … does it hold up?
Ummm … not really, not most of it.
It is a particular brand of late-1980s, early 1990s pop that seems almost goofy today, but from the 2024 perspective of knowing what that 22-year-old who could barely speak English became, it also seems so basic.
Then again, if you’re producing an album in 1990 for a 22-year-old who barely speaks English, what would you do?
But that voice? The voice was always there, from the basic days to when her music to her style to her presentation was about as extra as it gets.
And it’s that voice why she’s on my phone to skip … or to stay if the mood strikes me.
A Silly Place 