.new york state of mind.

In the past six years, I’ve had at least four emotional breakdowns which were all directly related to ipod malfunctions. I’m talking about the throwing of the broken ipod across the room, the stomping of feet and the sucking of teeth, the wailing about how my life/week/month was totally ruined and the hows am I expected to function normally? All of which is to say, I love my music. And because I love it so much, have extremely poor impulse control when it comes to acquiring music that strikes my fancy. Whenever/wherever I hear a song I like, I stop what I’m doing and comment, covet, make plans to get my hands on it as soon as I can. Listening to Pandora Radio all day at work doesn’t help; neither does have friends with interesting, wide-ranging tastes in music.  

My friend The Blogsmaid is one such friend. She always has the best soundtrack to whatever may be going on in her or your life at the moment, and gets to be in charge of radio whenever there’s a car trip involved.  Last Thursday, I was over at her apartment, talking – as usual – about our plans to take over the world, when a Billy Joel song suddenly came on. My ears perked.  For some reason, maybe the heat in The Blogsmaid’s un-air conditioned apartment (we’re sisters in sufferance) or the bottle of wine we drank to pre-celebrate our world takeover, I couldn’t get his song – his voice – out of my mind.   So Friday morning found me purchasing The Essential Billy Joel  from the iTunes store, a 35-song compilation of his best work.  

It’s now Monday morning, and I’ve yet to stop listening to it.  

Man, that googly-eyed drunk could sing. And write. How had I not consciously acknowledged this before now? 

Now, Billy Joel is not someone that normally comes to mind when I think about my favorite artists of yesteryear. I know who he is, of course. I know that he was married to Christie Brinkley and wrote “Uptown Girl” for her; that he was recently divorced from his 25-years-younger second wife who did that horrible hosting job on the first season of Top Chef; and that he purportedly has a drinking problem, a condition that doesn’t stop him from getting into cars and crashing into unsuspecting Long Island fences. I have vague childhood memories of hearing “For the Longest Time” and “Just the Way You Are” whenever my older sister tuned the radio to Lite FM. I’ve never forgotten – or forgiven – the fact that we had to run laps to “We Didn’t Start the Fire” for the entirety of 8^th grade gym class.  And obviously I must have picked up the lyrics to his greatest hits somewhere – how else to explain my hum-singing whenever one of his songs started playing in supermarkets and department stores?  

But still, I don’t think I’d previously never paid such close attention to his oeuvre until this past weekend’s torrid love affair with this compilation.  Sweet Baby Jeebus. He was phenomenal. His music, and especially his lyrics, have the capacity to convey the whole range of human emotion and experience.  

There’s the spots-and-all melancholy love-letter to home, New York State of Mind. The entreaty to reckless love, You May Be Right.  The sharp tableau of the erosion of the American Dream, Allentown.The live-a-little cajoling that Virgina and all other good Catholic girls need, Only the Good Die Young . You're right, Billy Joel - I'd rathe laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints. The song that lays bare men’s eternal fascination and love for Niñas Malas, She's Always a Woman.Let’s just say that I take this particular song very personally.  

There’s Just the Way You Are,  which should be the default anniversary song for any couple still happily together. There's Good Night Saigon, with lyrics so sad I can’t even bring myself to transcribe them here. The sweetest baby lullaby in the whole world, Lullabye (Good Night My Angel). The sad, sad musical musings on loneliness, drunkenness, and despair found in Piano Man and Captain Jack. The I’m-so-in-love-I-want-to-shout-it-from-the-rooftops Leave a Tender Moment Alone.  

All so very very lovely, especially to this girl (pointing at myself) who is far more likely to be listening to bachata, boleros, soul music, or really raunchy rap that makes her feel dirty inside.  

These songs are a great soundtrack for rainy New York weekends, when all you want to do is look out into the wet grayness and let your imagine run free like a six-year-old. They’re what you want to sing at the top of your lungs while you’re cooking a complicated meal, glass of wine in one hand and stirring spoon in the other. They’re trusty company for when you’re leaving on a jet plane or a long train ride.  They’re a glimpse into Americana, into heartbreak and heart happiness and life failures. They’re the only songs – except for a few Biggie Smalls songs, but that’s a story for another day – that Kim Jong-Illmatic and I can croon to together in our horrible froggy voices, exclaiming every other song, “OH MAN. He’s fucking awesome.”  

Unless I’m wrong (and I’m never wrong), I believe Mr. Joel has decided to shift his focus from rock-and-roll to classical music roll. Maybe it’s for the best: he’s probably very good at it, and it’s my opinions that most artists have a finite period of excellence. He probably needs to concentrate on limiting his alcohol consumption and recuperating from his trophy-wife induced broken heart.

But still.

Oh man.

Now that I’ve got his greatest hits in my ipod, don’t be surprised if you run into me on the subway and I’m singing a 25-year old song at the top of my head. Or at least lip-syncing it. I’m crazy y’all, but not that crazy.  

And to those who might be worried that my 32-year old self has turned the old fogey corner and can only enjoy songs from back in the day, songs that these-kids-today-don’t-know-anything-about – don’t worry. I’ve made the executive decision to turn off the Billy Joel and listen to Lloyd’s Get it Shawty.