I remember being in Chicago back in the day, listening to an FM rock station. After a bevy of alternative rock, the DJ suddenly put on the Waltz from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. At the art store where I worked, one of the young hipsters immediately yelled, "Tchaikovsky!" and began conducting with her hands. I'll never forget that moment. We had gone from, say, Throwing Muses to Tchaikovsky, and I remember thinking: How cool was that? Here was music making its own case. It didn't plead. It didn't demand. In its own way, it rocked. And then, after that glorious interlude, it was back to alternative rock. The funny thing was that the classical piece had not seemed out of place. It held its own. It brought to the table its own heft, its own weight. It wasn't preachy. It wasn't better than. It was simply another fiber in the fabric of the day. And maybe that's the way great music should be heard. Not fenced off by genre. Not placed behind glass. Not approa...
I went to a concert once, and during the intermission the DJ started playing oldies.
I say “oldies” with some chagrin—as well as trepidation—because there is always the danger that I might sigh wistfully and say, “Those were the good ol’ days.”
I'm with Morrissey on that one:
“Stop me, stop me, oh stop me… stop me if you think that you've heard this one before…”
Yikes!
If I ever fall into that trap, ring a bell. Flash a light. Grab a bullhorn and yell. Whatever you do:
WAKE ME UP!
Anyway, the “oldie” that night was a song by The Pharcyde—remember them?—called “Passin’ Me By.”
And I kid you not: young and old, male and female, people of every race knew the lyrics.
It was quite a moment.
As the music joyfully plundered the speakers, I was struck by something: the best music, no matter what genre it belongs to or when it was made, is ageless.
Which brings me to my radio station.
One of the first songs that bullied its way onto my playlist was more than thirty years young.
Yes.
I said young.
Souls of Mischief's debut album, 93 ’til Infinity, is loaded with banging songs, but the title track had that something. That magic that came from an era when, in hip-hop, it seemed as though absolutely anything could happen.
I remember strolling along the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica back when it was a thing.
Ages ago. 😂
It was an incredible stretch then, filled with boutique stores and wonderful places like the Midnight Special Bookstore and See Hear Records. There were all kinds of wonders about, and the street performers seemed determined to outshine all rivalry.
Those were the days!
Oops. There I go again.
Anyway, I wandered into the record store one afternoon and asked a woman on the staff about Souls of Mischief.
She told me she thought their debut CD “had the magic.”
I've never forgotten that.
Her words came back to me recently when the title track, “93 ’til Infinity,” somehow swam into my head.
Because that's exactly what it had.
The magic.
The beat carried that slight jazzy tilt. The lyrics were playful, effortless and refreshing. Everything moved. Everything breathed. It was the music of youth and possibility.
So I cued it up again in my library.
And there it was.
Still vibrant.
Still alive.
Still speaking with that vitality and verve that keeps the best music forever outside the reach of age.
And as you bob along with it, something becomes obvious:
This is a song that will never go gently into that good night.
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