Day 13: Why do we mourn musicians?

* Today's post was supposed to be to write about your day, but it seemed like low-hanging fruit. I went a different direction.

On Monday, January 15, 2018, Dolores O'Riordan, the lead singer of the Cranberries passed away of causes we won't be aware of until at least April (at least that's what Time Magazine says). O'Riordan's voice colors the memories of my high school life, and the news of her passing saddened me. I can vividly remember singing "Zombie" in my high school locker room with some of my friends before gym class. Her voice had a distinct quality that was fun to imitate and that song was definitely an ear worm, as it promised to be since the lyrics repeat "It's in your head" and all.

But really, it was the song "Dreams" that captured my heart. Teenagers of the 90s will know what I'm talking about (even if they aren't wild about the song). After a solid intro of upbeat guitar and driving drums, O'Riordan's ethereal voice begins, "Oh my life is changing every day, every possible way." These lyrics were part of my head's good-day soundtrack from about 1996-2005, and to be honest, I still think of that song when things are going particularly well, and I don't have any troubles to mentally process. However, what became clear to me when I read the announcement of her death was that I didn't really know too much about O'Riordan though I held her in a special place. To be completely honest, if a Trivial Pursuit question asked me to name the lead singer of the Cranberries, I could not have come up with her name. On the other hand, if a question on Jeopardy! were something like, "This band was led by Dolores O'Riordan and they just had to let it linger." I'd definitely buzz in with complete confidence and smile knowingly at Alex Trebek to answer, "Who are the Cranberries?" But, I digress.

All of this just got me thinking about how music connects us. For instance, through a CNN announcement on my phone on Friday, I read that Tom Petty died of an accidental overdose because he had a hip injury and had been prescribed opioids to handle the pain. Of all of the exciting and tragic headlines to come across my phone in just that way this weekend, the Tom Petty announcement is the only one I remember. The reason? I loved Tom Petty's music, and I never got tired of it. I held my iPad up to my belly to play "Running Down a Dream" and "Into the Great Wide Open" when I was pregnant with Beck, and Wes and I have killer car choreography to both of those songs. When I found out Tom Petty died, it dominated my thoughts, and I had to listen to his music immediately.

And now that I'm thinking about it, I can think of countless singers that people in the U.S. have mourned intensely: Michael Jackson, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Elvis Presley--these are merely a small fraction of the multitudes. Don MacLean wrote "American Pie" to commemorate the deaths of Richie Valens, Buddy Holly, and the Big Bopper. The U.S. mourns celebrities, but it feels to me that we put special emphasis on musicians. Why is that?

I would like to look into this more, but I have an initial theory. Good music is something we want to experience over and over. Songs that we love have a way of making it into our playlists, and then they become mixed in with our memories of that time period. Our memories are often gracious enough to only replay the happy parts, so our brains play a nice little highlight reel to the songs we listened to in that time period.  The song does the work, and the singer gets the glory. When we hear a musician who sang a song that was special to us has passed away, on some level we fear we'll lose part of our head's soundtrack and part of the happy memories we hold so dear. Thus, the pang in my heart when I heard that the world had lost Dolores O'Riordan, lead singer of the Cranberries, and more importantly to me, singer of "Dreams", which played in the background of my actual dreams for about 10 years.

Why does the O'Riordan story matter?

1. Connections matter. We are all connected, and though we don't all like the same music (you may hate The Cranberries or may not even know who they are), but if you have a musician you follow, you are connected to other fans of that musician. Feeling like we are connected gives us a sense of belonging, and that is something most of us long for. It's also why I asked a girl who was wearing a Kenny Rogers' t-shirt if she loved Kenny Rogers in her heart. It was clear to me from the eye roll and furrowed eyebrow she shot back at me in her response that she in fact would not classify herself with a love quite like that. But overall, shared fandom gives us a place to belong.

2. Music opens us up. It makes us vulnerable, and it's a safe kind of vulnerability. It can happen when you are completely alone in your room. If you don't know what I'm talking about, listen to George Jones sing "He Stopped Loving Her Today" and see what happens. If you can listen to that song without shedding a tear, your heart may be made of plastic. Ok, ok, maybe that song won't do anything for you, but surely, there's a song that tugs at your heartstrings. Though vulnerability isn't easy, it can be very freeing to us. We look to musicians to take us back to those moments and show us something about ourselves, and we can explore that space without actually showing anyone in person. It's like vulnerability practice.

3. Connections and vulnerability are matters of the heart, so musicians get a free pass to our inner selves. They don't know us, but through their music or with their music as our soundtrack, we've gotten to know ourselves better.

I know that not everyone reading this will feel the same way I feel about music and musicians. There are plenty of people who don't go in for celebrities and song lyrics in quite the way I do, but even if you are a person who couldn't care less about music, I challenge you to listen to a song that was popular when you were in high school and not have at least one memory come roaring back.

And to you, Dolores O'Riordan, thank you for blasting through the stereo of my 1990 white Buick LeSabre. Thank you for putting an extra little hop in my step as I walked down the sidewalk on my way to American Literature class at McPherson College, as I found my way to the bookstore on Michigan Ave in Chicago, Illinois, and as I opened the door to my classroom during my first year of teaching. I don't know much about you, but I know your voice played in my head for about 10 years, and I'd recognize it anywhere. You were a vital song on the soundtrack of my growing up.