I’ve always loved music. Over the years, my brain has soaked up tunes, lyrics, and band names that I remember whether I want to or not.
So, when I saw a notice for an upcoming music trivia competition, I thought it would be the perfect, non-strenuous way to get out, exercise the one part of me I’m still confident in, and have a good time with friends.
I’d grown up in the groovy, Best-Music-Ever days of the 60s. The groups had names that were as cool as the words they crooned: Buffalo Springfield. The Zombies. Blood, Sweat & Tears.
Words to songs I was sure were written just for me were still lodged inside my head; I could recite the ode Bobby Gentry sang to Billy Joe without skipping a mournful word. That Harper Valley PTA could get a verbatim scolding from me.
If I really concentrated, I could recall snippets of old records from my parents’ days. Chattanooga Choo-Choo. The Ink Spots’ My Echo, My Shadow, and Me. Mairzy Doats.
And, best of all, I’d watched enough Bugs Bunny cartoons to hear some famous opera selections like “The Rabbit (Barber) of Seville” and at least a dozen other well-known scores.
I’d be great at this trivia night. I signed up and gathered some friends.
The venue was packed with players. Tables dotted the room, and teams huddled together with guffaws and confident swaggers.
It was time to begin. The moderator blared his spiel:
“We will be asking questions on music from the 1970s to the 2020s. We will need the title and the group singing.”
My younger teammates leaned in, excited and sure of themselves. I stiffened. I could feel my bones beginning to ossify even more than they already were.
I knew a few songs from the 70s. I was a young mother then, though, and unless those songs were played on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood or parodied on Sesame Street, I probably wouldn’t be able to name them.
All around me, I felt the electricity of minds that had been soaking up current music while my car radio had stayed tethered to the songs that kept me sane from young motherhood through hot flashes into AARP eligibility.
The game began. My ears were assaulted with lyrics I couldn’t understand and doubted were real words. These were not rhyming ditties. These were tangles of slang set to sloppy syncopation.
I heard hissing whispers from every corner of the room, and pencils scribbled words onto paper. I sat dumbly, smiling as if I knew the answers but was too bored to answer.
By the time the first break was called, I’d decided to make my displeasure known. I’d paid good money to show off what I knew, and nobody wanted to know any of it.
“I’m gonna complain to someone,” I grumbled to a teammate. “Where are the songs from the 50s and 60s? Those were big hits.”
I pushed back my chair, determined to give “a piece of my mind” to people who would clearly not want me to sacrifice those pieces.
Then, my sweet, 20-something friend nodded the nod we offered doddering relatives at family gatherings. Seeing his piteous gaze, I decided not to cause a scene.
I looked around the room and noticed I was probably the oldest person here.
No one else would know that Mrs. Brown had a lovely daughter. Quinn the Eskimo was someone they’d never be anxious to see. And my boomerang? It didn’t come back and they wouldn’t care.
Their loss, I decided. They just weren’t Born to be Wild like me.
Maybe I should check out the activities at the nearest retirement community the next time I want to challenge my music memory. Bummer.
