Saving Ears: ...In Sin and Misery

I never cared much for the oldies station.

Far prior to the hubcapless wonder of my high school years our family made its way about in a beaten up blue ford station wagon. It was shorter, and I was shorter, and the combination of these facts meant that looking out the window wasn't a terribly efficient pastime unless I wanted to view the slightly fuzzy blue interior material which covered most of the door and the knobby top of the door lock which broke the otherwise soft level horizon of the interior material.

"There is, a house, in New Orleans..."

The man in the radio howled the next line and I jumped at the noise. My mother glanced over at me and laughed a little.

"You don't know this song, Pika?"

I shook my head.

"Its a very old and famous song, normally sung by a woman."

"And its been, the ruin, of many a poor boy. Dear God, I know, I'm one."

"What's it about?" I asked.

"A brothel."

My pause indicated my vocab didn't quite cover that word.

"A whorehouse," my mother said.

"Oh," I said. I was aware of the world's oldest profession at that age but, being about nine, I didn't really understand the emotional ramifications of it.

"Its a very sad and desperate thing," my mother said. She seemed a little agitated at the whole conversation.

I was completely in my own world staring out the window listening, "I like it."

"What?"

"I like this song."

"Oh," she responded, slightly relieved.

"I like the way it sounds, I like this band."

"The Animals? They are not very good. Nobody liked them when I was your age. They are fake, put together by a business. They couldn't even play their own instruments when they started."

There did not seem to be very much to say to that. It wasn't until many years later that I would find any other version of the Animal's history but at the time I was too busy enjoying the music to question further. I wanted to sing along, but I didn't know the words. There was something about the utter misery and desperation in the singer's voice which held my attention, something beautiful. That same something remained with me for days after as I hummed the tune, slightly nervous to sing it aloud for fear I'd upset mom with the "brothel" talk.

***

Somewhere in the Mojave desert the moon watched a beat up little Ford Tarus of college students slide along the highway.

We have a rule that you know you are in the middle of nowhere when all you can get on the radio are Jesus stations and music featuring accordions. I was spinning through stations in the passenger seat at two in the morning when I came across the beginning chord progression.

"Ohmygod," I slurred the words together in my haste, cranking the volume, "I haven't heard this in forever."

"There is, a house, in New Orleans, they call the rising sun..."

"Heard what?" Drummer looked at me quizzically from the passenger seat.

I didn't respond, head tipped back, as I howled the next line with the radio, "And its been, the ruin, of many a poor boy...dear God, I know, I'm one..."

I haven't the least idea how bad or good it sounded, but Drummer kept glancing at me sideways as we tore through the night. From time to time I'd catch him humming along bits of it with me. I think he would have sang aloud with me, but he did not know the words. The song eventually died and there car was filled with a content silence.

"What's that song?"

"House of the Rising Sun, its really old but pretty famous. This cover is by The Animals."

"Alright," he smiled, and his voice trailed off something about "when we get home." I found myself humming snatches of it for the next few weeks after hearing it, and it seemed to make him smile.

***

I hadn't talked to Tina in ages but somehow when I randomly IMed her we wound up in the most bizarre and complicated conversation I think we had ever had.

"...and so..." I said, "I started the blog to practice because I can't write well enough yet to finish the book..."

"You're writing right now?"

"Well yes, but I'm not pleased with the first draft I wrote for a chunk of the book. None of the characters are believable. Nobody really talks like the Gillmore Girls, its alienating when everybody in a book does."

"I don't know," she replied, naming a new TV show she was actively watching which I had not heard of and now can't remember the name of, "All the characters in that are sexy and clever, by your standards they should be very alienating. However, they are still very real because, for whatever reason, they are all very messed up and miserable inside, even though on the outside it looks like they shouldn't be."

"So you think everybody can identify with these people because we're all miserable inside too?"

"That's harsher than I would say it, but yes."

***

I've gone through the lyrics several times now in search of the whorehouse that upset my mother all those years ago. I understand that sometimes other people have found reference to it but that others never do. I don't think the lyrics are what are important to it though: not now, not however many hundreds of years ago it was first sung, and not in 1964 when it brought a little band from obscurity into wild fame. Its the empathy for the singer.