Memories often come with soundtracks

Brent Hopkins Hopkins has left the building.
E-mail him at [email protected] to wish him
good riddance.

There’s a sound in my head, one that dates back many, many
years in my musical development. It’s the quiet, rhythmic
“˜thup-thup-thup’ of a record player that’s
reached the end of its disc, bumping quietly over and over again
until the needle’s lifted and a new album is put on.

And like that record, I too, am at a finish of sorts. In a few
weeks, I’ll put on the ridiculous hat and uncomfortably
billowy commencement robe and receive my degree. Although I
finished my last class a quarter ago, it’s still a humbling
thought, knowing that the security of college will soon be a
memory, and only the big, bad real world awaits.

I’ve been pretty lucky so far, so I’m not afraid,
but still, I’d like to know what that next album will be,
that the hand of life puts on that big ol’ record player.

I arrived here four years ago, an arrogant, misguided youth,
armed with a love of swing music, ska bands and a vague idea that
jazz was a sort-of important art form involving a couple of old
guys with trumpets. Now in 2001, I’m still leaving as an
arrogant, misguided youth, but one who’s learned a heck of a
lot about how that music is made. And though it apparently
hasn’t improved my personality too much, I really believe
that it has taught me an awful lot about life.

It started subtly. The first thing my freshman roommate did when
we moved in, even before he unpacked his suitcase and hung up his
weird, psychedelic art, was check out my CDs and play me his. I
didn’t know anything about this foreign-sounding “rock
en español,” but it sounded cool enough, and it broke
the ice as we got to know each other.

Continuing onward, I saw how the tunes playing on stereos could
spark friendships in the strangest ways. The punk girl from Santa
Monica could chat with the country-loving Bruin Republican over the
merits of “Ring of Fire.” The computer fiend from the
Antelope Valley bonded with the girl who worked in food service
over a borrowed Sublime album. Hey, my RA even forgot about all
those times I told her I set my rug on fire once I told her I liked
G. Love and Special Sauce.

Beginning to catch on, I took this job with the Daily Bruin.
Though I began as an opinion columnist, I started writing about
music and how it affected folks everyday. True, this wasn’t
exactly deep stuff.

I look at the old clips now and smack myself in the head over
lines such as: “Most of us like music, so imagine your life
being like a concert. Some people want their life to be a classical
recital, with 47 violinists, the finest horn players in the world
and enough woodwinds to fill up Carnegie Hall.”

But it was a start, at least. I was beginning to realize that
there’s a lot more meaning attached to the songs we listen to
than just their mere notes. Wanting to learn more, I plunged myself
into work here, writing this column and finding out everything I
could. I wrote voraciously, far out-pacing my academic
productivity, going to loads of shows, studying countless books,
listening attentively in the scores of music history classes I
jumped into, searching for meaning.

In that time, I learned an awful lot. Techno didn’t seem
so alien any more. Country stopped being just redneck music. Duke
Ellington became more than just some old guy who my grandparents
probably liked. And probably most importantly, I learned that no
matter how terrible I thought a band was, there was someone out
there whose feelings were just as strong, but in favor of the
music.

These four years have given me a lot to chew on. I’ve seen
friendships come and go, times see-sawing from good to bad, fights
break out and resolve. Each one has its own musical signature. I
fell deeply in love with music as a strong background, only to
watch that love slowly ebb away, leaving bittersweet memories and
love songs resonating in the background. As long as I hear those
songs, I’ll always have something to take with me, alongside
those thoughts of the past. Like the love itself, the songs will
always make my life better for knowing them.

Throughout my tenure as one of the many critics here at The
Bruin, I’ve always tried to capture the rush and the joy that
that music gives to me, and pass it along in words. Sometimes I can
pull it off. Most of the time, I just get in the ballpark and
y’all have to figure it out on your own.

If I have learned something in the process, however, it’s
that no matter how accurate I am at conveying the feeling of a
tune, it’ll always be a poor facsimile of the real thing. No
matter how many classes I take, or columns I write, I’ll
never quite catch the demons that Ben Harper can spill forth from
his guitar, nor will I capture the supremely beautiful feeling of
slow dancing with a gorgeous woman as “I’ve Got it
Bad” plays in the background.

I might be able to remind you of what those things are like, but
I’ll never be a substitute for doing it on your own.

So I guess that’s it, my last goodbye. I’m going to
go off and dig through my CD collection and find a favorite disc to
listen to ““ I’d suggest that you do the same. Go out
and enjoy this stuff on your own, whatever your preference may
be.

It’ll cushion the blows of life, and lift the good times
up higher. It’ll change your life if you let it”¦ God
knows it sure has changed mine.

As my parting comment, I’d like to say thank you.
It’s been a privilege writing for you folks, whoever you may
be, for these last four years. I’ll miss doing it quite a
bit. Then again, whenever I want to remember it, I’ll just
drag out those punk CDs I used to listen to when I needed to write
quickly on deadline. Then the memory will be back in no time.