Scratched memories and dusty hearts

My old CD collection sits covered in dust occupying four bookshelves in the living room, reminiscent of stone soldiers waiting for action. Scanning the shelves, memories flood back to my mind at a swifter rate than trying to remember what I ate yesterday. Digital media has made the compact disk obsolete, and it is regretful that future generations will not know the joy and sentimental pleasure of owning this fossilized media.

The top shelf of the collection holds a CD by FrizzBee. This band was one of many local acts playing in Houston during the early 2000s. Looking at their cover album, I am taken back to the craziest warehouse party you could imagine. There were fire-breathers, contortionists and plenty of comradery. Unfortunately, someone placed a large mirror at the bottom of a spiral staircase, and yours truly broke it. Freezing in disbelief, looking around to see who all noticed, my fight-or-flight kicked in. Grabbing my friends promptly I exited with the fear seven-years bad luck.

Scanning the next shelf there sits the CD by a local band from Galveston. Melovine was an alternative band with a thick, heavy sound. In the early 2000s, they played many shows at the Balinese Room, a fairly famous night club that was at the end of a 600-foot pier off the Galveston seawall. It was here one night I broke a ligament in my knee from dancing. That felt like the longest walk to my car in the history of walks.  This historical bar that was fancied by the mob and bootleggers of the 1920s was taken from us by Hurricane Ike in 2008.

Continuing along the rows of cracked, dusty cases, at the end of the bottom row there is a case with less dust than all the others. Here rests the last CD I will probably ever purchase. Remembering one January morning in 2016, while taking my daughter to school the disk jockey on the radio made me cry. My daughter asked, “What’s wrong mom?” I replied through sobs, “David Bowie died.” I fell in love with him as the Goblin King from the 1986 movie “Labyrinth” when I was a child. In my adult years, I explored his diverse musical talent from Ziggy Stardust to the Thin White Duke.

I knew that Bowie had released a new album after a long hiatus, but had not heard it yet. The album, “Blackstar,” had gotten mixed reviews until after his passing two days later when it skyrocketed on several charts. The day his passing made news, I ordered the CD off Amazon. When it arrived, I bought batteries and dusted off my old compact disk player. Bowie knew he was dying, and it was evident in his lyrics.

The CD “Blackstar” holds a special place in my heart. Containing only six tracks, each gives insight to life and death. Bowie, who was fighting terminal cancer, looked at death as being free and compared himself to a bluebird. This particular song titled, “Lazarus”, cheers me up when thinking of my father, who also died from terminal cancer.

The age of CDs has passed. They sit in landfills amongst videotapes and DVDs. There was plenty wrong with compact disks. The plastic cases always broke, sometimes while trying to get the security sticker off the edge at the time of purchase. They were very sensitive as a mere scratch could take out an entire track. Yet, looking at my hoard of scratched CDs, I can’t bring myself to throw them away. To do that would be disrespectful to my memories.

Digital music removes these annoyances and brought down the price of music, but there is no sentimental essence to digital music. There is no waiting for the band after the show so they can sign a digital track. The music from local bands who are not together anymore can’t be found online. People can’t hold a booklet in their hands and look at pages of artwork and lyrics that accompany digital music. Digital music may trigger memories, but there’s just something about holding a tangible item that makes the memories real again.