June 1, 2006
Music means so much
'There's no stopping a free spirit caught up in a musical moment.'

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Music gets me through my days.

In middle school, living solo with my dad, we had full band equipment set up in our living room.

The couch was pushed over in a corner so that the drum kit filled in the backdrop for guitars, bass and amps.

Sleepovers were the rage, and I appreciated my girlfriends' homes full of wicker, flowered wallpaper and Helen Reddy.

When they came to my house I'd say, "Wanna turn the microphone on and sing along to Ministry?"

Friends loved the freedom of expression at the Brooks abode.

Call me ardent.

After first seeing the Tragically Hip, I listened to them for six straight months. On the seventh month I rested, and then I began listening to them again.

I can multiply because of School House Rock, and I can survive the Indiana weather because bands tour here.
Due to an iTunes snafu recently, my friend and cool person who runs Midwest Music Summit, bailed me out of yet another impasse with technology.

While transferring music from my computer to iPod (third time, long story), he said, "Your database is like Christmas morning."

I told him he could "listen" to anything he wanted. I suggested an L.A. band called The 88, my recent favorite.
He listened; he loved; he transferred.

The 88 played Radio Radio, June 19, alongside Matt Costa, and I fell helplessly victim to starstruckitis.

I was the only person in the building who knew all their songs and, oh, how I milked it.

They've been featured on NPR, Carson Daly, Gray's Anatomy and, gosh darn, The OC, so they're obviously good.

This unsigned Silver Lake phenomenon sold (out) their song "Coming Home" to a Target commercial, and who doesn't love Target?

They're a power Popsicle changing creative tempos on a five and dime, Hockney's surreal L.A. in the happiest times.

Think Queen meets David Cassidy dressed in his Sunday best and you're there.

I shouted out a request: "Melting in the Sun!" The band laughed and the lead singer said, "Oh my God, we have one fan in Indianapolis!"

After their set, about eight other people and I skipped Matt Costa altogether, and were privately serenaded behind the venue.

They took more requests and allowed "the women folk" to sing along or play tambourine.

My boyfriend grunted a couple of times, but he understands that there's no stopping a free spirit caught up in a musical moment.

Some may say, "Grow up."

My standard reply is, "I've always grown up with music."