I Remember Grinding With Tall Girls At Bar Mitzvahs...

The first installment in an ongoing music-memory series based on Joe Brainard's cult classic, "I Remember..."

This week, all I needed was my own scrappy memory.

While teaching creative writing classes for high school students, I would always begin the semester with an exercise based on Joe Brainard’s cult classic, I Remember…an 167-page collection of random single-sentence memories mined from his personal past.

Here’s what it looks like:

As you can see, Brainard developed a unique and wildly creative approach to the human act of remembering.

Fifty years since its publication, I Remember… demonstrates how recalling the viscera involved in our life-long observations — no matter how awesome or mundane — can highlight what we keep for ourselves.

Like someone shepherding you across a river at night, Brainard’s writing nudges us across the vastness of our minds until we eventually reach a space bright enough to get up and walk around. We suddenly become explorers of our own lives.

Here are some lines I found in Brainard’s book that center around sound:

I remember the organ music from “As The World Turns.”

I remember the sound of the ice cream man coming.

I remember “The Bop”

I remember the first time I saw Elvis Presley. It was on the Ed Sullivan Show.

I remember Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas (so sad) in Meet Me In St. Louis.

I remember how much rock and roll music can hurt. It can be so free and sexy when you are not.

I remember Leadbelly records smaller than most records.

It’s been a while since I taught a creative class. But for fun, I wanted to apply this same tactic to my personal timeworn relationship to music.

As you read through my memories, I’m sure you’ll remember things as well.

---

I remember telling my 2nd grade classmates that when I grow up I want to be a rockstar.

I remember my mom singing along to The Sound of Music.

I remember not being able to whistle.

I remember telling my mom to repeat the song from the backseat of her car as we idled in the driveway on a rainy afternoon. I do not remember the song.

I remember listening to Good Charlotte’s The Young & the Hopeless CD on repeat from inside a dark green clothes hamper on the floor of my parents bedroom until my dad got home from work.

I remember being impressed with my dad when he came home one night from work and surprised me with Backstreet Boys’ Black & Blue.

I remember how difficult it was to peel off the barcode tape on the edge of a new CD.

I remember balancing my portable CD player on the nearest “flat” surface so the music didn’t skip.

I remember my yellow and black walkman and a shoebox full of cassettes.

I remember Sum 41’s Half Hour Of Power. For years, I couldn’t guess what the album opener was called because it was edited: “Grab The Devil By The Horns And **** Him Up The ***.”

I remember looking up at my grandma, confused, as she asked the music store employee if the CD I wanted (Lil’ J’s All About J) had any “curses” on it.

I remember my dad’s stack of unopened country CDs in the back corner of the cabinet under the TV. “I went through a country phase,” he said.

I remember passing our local music store, Strawberries, and feeling desperate for my mom to turn the car around.

I remember a life-size cardboard cutout of Coldplay and my mom buying Rush Of Blood To The Head.

I remember American Idiot being the first unedited CD my mom agreed to buy me with a Parental Advisory label in the bottom left corner.

I remember errands. Listening to 99.1 PLR and 105.9 The River with my dad as we drove to the dry cleaner’s and the hardware store on Saturday afternoons in Spring. Windows down.

I remember picking out the music for family dinner.

I remember the Woodstock documentary blowing my mind.

I remember being jealous of the kid in Almost Famous.

I remember thinking John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity was cool, then years later realizing he was mostly just pathetic.

I remember listening to my headphones so loud at night my mom could hear the music down the hall in her bedroom.

I remember my over-the-ear Skullcandy headphones with the lime green spiral cord that bounced back and forth when I walked.

I remember being frightened of album covers in the Heavy Metal section. Especially Disturbed’s The Sickness.

I remember the giant Who poster above my dresser. The band draped in a British flag.

I remember going to Walmart with my dad to buy a blueberry-colored Sony boombox.

I remember “borrowing” Led Zeppelin and Jethro Tull and Guess Who CDs from giant filing cabinet in my dad’s office and never giving them back.

I remember wanting to be a rapper.

I remember wanting to be a shoeless hippie at Woodstock. (Still do.)

I remember the older I got, the more I liked songs my parents liked.

I remember Blalock’s Indie Rock Playlists (BIRP!). Two-hundred-and-fifty song mixes of “emerging” music you could download all at once.

I remember buying “Money” by Pink Floyd on iTunes.

I remember David helping convince my mom to buy me an iPod.

I remember playing Ben Folds’ “The Luckiest” for my adult neighbor Kelly, making her cry, then not knowing what to do.

I remember having a crush on Avril Lavigne.

I remember wanting to play the drums. (Still do.)

I remember the stereo overheating.

I remember dressing up as Ozzy Osbourne for Halloween and continuing to wear the studded leather bracelets to school without my parents knowing.

I remember wanting to look punk. I tried dyeing my hair blue with the Barbicide in a men’s locker room but I got some of the toxic blue liquid in my right eye and started scream-crying.

I remember getting the chills while listening to music in bed at night.

I remember the chills never getting old.

I remember scouring music blogs after school.

I remember Aries and Limewire and Pirate Bay.

I remember my dad having to take our home computer to Staples because of Aries and Limewire and Pirate Bay.

I remember the giant stack of blank CDs my dad bought me with “extreme” sports people on them. Eventually, I used them all.

I remember burning new mixes for the car even if it was just for a 15 minute ride across town.

I remember backing down the driveway with Scotty the first time he ever got stoned. I blasted “I’m God” by Clams Casino so loud the car shook.

I remember the last day I spent with my great uncle Glenn before he died. He brought me down to his storage unit and gave me a pile of thick-cut Victor records from the 1930s wrapped up in leather bound books.

I remember watching music videos with my babysitter.

I remember how turned on I got the first time I heard The Weeknd’s “Wicked Games.”

I remember waking up to birdsong.

I remember Chris wearing his Dispatch t-shirt on the playground in 6th grade. I thought he looked very cool in his all-blue outfit.

I remember blasting Three Days Grace’s “I Hate Everything About You” when my parents wouldn’t let me have a girl over.

I remember seeing Blink 182 in a summer rain storm. The muddy lawn became a graveyard for lost flip flops.

I remember working lights and sound at a fringe theater in London. The director told me to play Chet Baker between scenes in his gritty rendition of a Tennessee Williams play about a whorehouse.

I remember drinking too much red wine one night before one of the shows, playing Chet Baker, and fucking up the cues.

I remember my mom buying me two records for my 18th birthday. The White Album with the original white vinyl and Beatles portraits, and Steely Dan’s Can’t Buy A Thrill.

I remember it took me a couple more years to actually enjoy Steely Dan.

I remember Jeff Spicoli dancing to “Wooly Bully” at prom.

I remember Ferris Bueller lip syncing “Danke Schoen” and “Twist & Shout.”

I remember listening to “Dreams” while it thundered outside.

I remember listening to “Mother Nature’s Son” with Sean and Kevin in a car in a field during a lightning storm before the last day of high school.

I remember listening to Bob Marley’s “Kaya” on vinyl after cleaning the apartment.

I remember cleaning my apartment to Black Sabbath’s Paranoid.

I remember listening to Bob Dylan croon “It Ain’t Me, Babe” while it poured rain on a summer evening, windows open.

I remember lugging my speakers into the bathroom whenever I took a shower.

I remember making out with Leah while “Teenage Dirtbag” played in the background. Her sister walked in.

I remember seeing Wayne Coin crowd-surf inside a translucent plastic ball. Twice.

I remember Fredo puking in the parking lot after a Flaming Lips concert because the light show was too crazy.

I remember buying my first Sony turntable on Amazon and being amazed that it arrived so fast. It was silver with fake wood panelling and built-in speakers.

I remember finding The Who’s Tommy in the back of my grandmother’s attic.

I remember my neighbor Devin playing explicitly sexual R&B while his mom — a math teacher — drove us to high school.

I remember Ben Folds playing four encores with The Boston Symphony.

I remember my stepdad John with his eyes closed, dancing alone in the living room.

I remember drives to my grandma’s on Christmas Eve and turning up the radio every time “Dominick The Donkey” came on. My dad and I would “eee-ahhh” on cue.

I remember reading Blossom Dearie’s name on the menu at a Taiwanese tea house in Greenwich Village. “Sunday Afternoon” played in my head.

I remember rocking out to Cat Empire’s “Two Shoes” on Bushy Hill Road with Kevin in his beat-up Volvo.

I remember discovering Pink Floyd’s Animals at the Trading Post with Sean and Kevin. We spent the rest of the day driving down dirt roads in the forest, saying “Oh my god, this is so fucking good.”

I remember stuffing unnamed cassette tapes in the pockets of my pea coat on a London street corner.

I remember Ben becoming synonymous with the band Phoenix.

I remember Jeff insisting that I learn “Summer, Highland Falls” on the piano and I still haven’t.

I remember Ben being the first person I knew to show me Pandora.

I remember Dan’s parents telling him he listened to the devil’s music but it was just the Arctic Monkeys.

I remember Dan teaching himself to play bass.

I remember wanting to jam but not knowing how.

I remember Neil Young’s “Harvest” and blurry fields of cherry blossoms in upstate New York.

I remember the transformative aesthetic effect of a new record sleeve.

I remember John Lennon’s face on my wall.

I remember a group of girls at a diner asking me if I was Yung Gravy.

I remember needing to turn it up.

I remember being ordered to turn it down, please.

I remember waking up with a song in my head.

I remember air-drumming to “Seven Nation Army” for at least three years straight.

I remember playing “Re: Stacks” at an indoor track meet. While tying my sneakers, a teammate told me that Bon Iver wasn’t pump-up music.

I remember “The Last Waltz.” Neil Young’s cocaine booger and Van Morrison’s unflatteringly tight jumper.

I remember silent discos with big steins of beer.

I remember Dan falling and crushing a lamp while dancing to LCD Soundsystem’s “Dance Yrself Clean.”

I remember my piano teacher Julie’s blue and orange house.

I remember my mom going out after dinner to see Cher.

I remember Kidz Bop and Now (That’s What I Call Music).

I remember wearing a hand-me-down Shaq Laker’s Jersey and feeling like Aaron Carter (RIP).

I remember trying to dance with tall girls at bar mitzvahs.

I remember the Teen Center. A steamy room in a rundown shopping mall where horny tweens would grind in the dark.

I remember Akon and Young Jeezy.

I remember “Smack That.”

I remember Ms. Robinson, the 8th grade history teacher, grabbing a Lil’ Jon CD from her car when the DJ didn’t show up to the school dance.

I remember driving friends to parties just so I could pick the music.

I remember listening to Spoon in the tube.

I remember Snoop Dogg coming out 40 minutes late and lighting a blunt.

I remember a security guard reaching into my waistband and confiscating my weed at Terminal 5.

I remember a security guard smelling my Gatorade bottle and kicking us out of line.

I remember sneaking back into line and seeing The Kooks.

I remember fixing silence with a hum.

I remember Marilyn Manson removing a rib to blow himself.

I remember Ciara being trans.

I remember the 27 club.

I remember Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison even though I never saw the movie.

I remember hoping the next song would fit the vibe.

I remember my grandma’s favorite song was “Mack The Knife.”

I remember digging “Mack The Knife.”

I remember the James Taylor Christmas album.

I remember the Scooby Doo movie soundtrack. (“She’s a brick houuuuuse.”)

I remember when Scotty asked who’s Nirvana?

I remember the first time I heard Cindy Lee’s Diamond Jubilee.

I remember having a disposable camera that added images of NSYNC at the bottom of ever developed photo.

I remember Velvet Revolver and their song that went, “Somebody raped my tapeworm abortion…”

I remember identifying songs on a CD by their track number.

I remember my dad telling me he also liked Simple Plan and thinking woah.

I remember the way my ears would ring after shows at the Java Barn.

I remember getting up in the middle of sex to flip the record.

I remember seeing Robert Plant’s golden curls glow under a spotlight.

I remember being at the edge of a mosh pit.

I remember my first King Gizzard show. From the bleachers we watched hundreds of fans sit down and row the air in unison as if they were on a viking ship headed straight to hell.

I remember telling people “that was the best show I’ve ever seen” so many times.

I remember The McLovins filling a hot barn with screaming fans.

I remember being confused seeing “noise rock” in a garage at UCONN.

I remember making up lyrics to pop-country songs playing on my boss’s radio.

I remember not knowing the lyrics. (I never do.)

I remember thinking “Our Little Town” by Blaze Foley at the Austin Outhouse is the most intimate song that’s ever been recorded.

I remember hiding the fact that I played the piano from everyone at school.

How about you? What do you remember?