If someone tells you a song is important to them, you should listen to it carefully. Because afterwards, you’ll know them better. If they share a song with you, treat it with the kind of care and respect you’d give to a treasured photo or keepsake. It’s a window into their very private world. And it is all we really have, in the end.
I knew the songs that were truly important to my mom: Eric Clapton (well, Derek and the Dominos) and Layla; Cream’s Strange Brew; Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s Sanibel (which I can never ever listen to without crying, ever again); Hendrix’s Are You Experienced?; Jethro Tull’s Aqualung and so many more that were on heavy rotation in the car, whenever she’d drive me to ballet class as a child.
And I knew the musicians she respected: Janis Joplin, Prince (“He’s a better musician than anyone gives him credit for, Becky”), The Hollies, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Bowie, Rod Stewart, The Police, Genesis, Springsteen, The Eagles, Fela Kuti (my parents actually met in Nigeria, but that’s another story)… it’s a long list.
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What I didn’t know was that my mom had since learned to love Sam Fender, Lewis Capaldi, The Weeknd, Bruno Mars and Ed Sheeran. I only know this because she’d bought their CDs from thrift stores. I even now know a couple of the volunteers from said thrift stores. They worked out who I was from my name, when I went to donate a few things (it’s so hard to let anything go when someone dies) and they asked after her.
It turns out that they used to put certain CDs aside, ready for when she came in. And apparently she always bought whatever they recommended — my mom was a kind, giving and inquisitive person.
(Image credit: Future)
I also didn’t know my mom had an extra cupboard stuffed solely with CDs. The entire back catalogs of The Beatles, Jackson Browne and Jethro Tull weren’t a surprise, but Wu-Tang Clan’s 1993 epic Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) was likely a thrift store revelation — I can even see she paid £2 for it — and I love that for her.
I should explain: my mom and I were very close. We also lost my beautiful younger sister in 2021 after an illness (not helped by that whole pandemic thing) which made us cling to each other even more. But I lived and worked in London; she lived a three-hour drive away. Distance is annoying.
You may have guessed that my mom has passed. And you may also have guessed that it was sudden, so I never got the chance to say goodbye. I never got to do it the way you always imagine you’ll be able to at the end; to hug her, hold her hand, thank her for being my awesome mom and hear whatever she might want to tell me.
If you’re reading this and thinking, ‘Me too’, I urge you to sit with your person’s music for a while. And this is especially pertinent if it’s music they kept in their car.
(Image credit: Future)
Tangled up in blue
Behold! The car my mom part-exchanged her bigger, sportier Mazda for in 2013. I coated her off for getting an “old lady car” with its “toaster engine” and begged her to reconsider, but the deal was done.
And now that this vehicle has sadly come to me, I made a curious revelation: the CD player I’ve always known to be in this car wasn’t there when she bought it. She must have had it fitted later. How do I know? I found the original central dash column in the spare wardrobe. And she clearly loved this (then) new souped up player, because every available compartment, door and nook in this car is stuffed full of CD books — those ones where you do away with the case for space and fit the holographic discs into the little plastic sleeves.
I love that she did this as a gift to herself and didn’t tell anyone. When I first stuck the key in the ignition, Hootie & the Blowfish’s Cracked Rear View was playing. We went to see them in the early noughties, at the House of Blues in Florida. I cried for a full hour at the wheel, still in the parking lot. I needed it. Actually, it felt good.
Also in the car was Santana (we saw Carlos et al at the Hammersmith Apollo in 2016), Bon Jovi (’95, Wembley), Bruce Springsteen (Ricoh Arena, Coventry, also 2016) and several CDs I’d burned for her between 2002 and 2005. I always tried to write in a circular fashion with my black Sharpie when I created these discs, to echo the grooves of a record. There’s a whole extra feature to be written about the lost art of burning a CD for someone you love, I think.
Oye Como Va
It wasn’t just acts we’d seen live taking up the limited space in her car, of course. My mom kept a lot of Bob Dylan around; Blood on the Tracks was clearly the last thing she’d been spinning before switching the disc out for a bit of Hootie — and Traveling Wilburys’ Vol. 1 was just below that, in the little cubby hole above the CD player.
In the time since I lost my mom, I’ve driven this car a lot. I have often driven it at night, when I couldn’t sleep. On the road, I belted out the songs I burned for her back when that was a thing you did for people you loved. It was my grief therapy. I shared playlists with her friends and we talked about gigs they’d been to with her. They say it helped them too.
If I couldn’t make a decision about what she’d want me to do about things, I put one of her tracks on in the car and found the answer. And it was invariably, “Don’t worry about it. Live your life and be free, Becky. I love you”.
I hope she knows I love her too. I miss her. And I definitely approve of her taste in music.
Music has always been a non-negotiable in my life. I see now that it was a non-negotiable in my mom’s life too. She just showed it quietly and in different ways, because she was a mom to two daughters and that took it out of her.
I truly believe humans need music. We need real music with real lyrics, that actual people had to write down or they couldn’t rest. We need the chord progressions that had to get out of their heads and onto a tape. And we need the meaning these tracks take on years down the line — their association with the lives and loves of people close to us.
Old, scratched, starting to struggle; those compact discs are like my mom’s little Madza — becoming harder to run. To be honest, I know the feeling. Parts of the car are held together with gaffer tape (aren’t we all?). At its last service, the intake of breath over the teeth and slow shake of the mechanic’s head seemed a little graver than before.
But I will never sell that car, or the collection of CDs within it. Not that I’d get much for either, anyway.
I have named the car Hidders, short for Hidalgo, after our gypsy heritage. To me it will always be priceless. And somehow, owning the music my mom casually kept in her ever-evolving life gig on wheels has brought me closer to her.
Now that I’ve listened to every CD that was squirrelled away in Hidders when I got it, I’ve started taking my sister’s old collection of discs in there too, whenever I need to chat with her. Oh yes, we carefully kept her stacks of Erykah Badu, Lauren Hill, Prince, Maxwell, Sinéad O’Connor, D’Angelo, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Beck, Madonna, Black Eyed Peas and more too.
And don’t tell me you never talk to people who may or may not physically be there in the car? You should try it, it’s great.
Love you, mom and Jo. See you both down the road.
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becky.scarrott@futurenet.com (Becky Scarrott)
