There was a time when it seemed my life had a soundtrack. It was fluid and rich and it drowned out all the other noise going on. Music could make me feel connected to those around me as much as my phone sometimes makes me feel disconnected from my surroundings now.

When I wrapped myself into a cocoon of sound, music sent emotions through me like waves. It could have been my youth, or the times, but it felt contagious.

That’s what drove me to create a play list of the music I mention in my upcoming memoir, No Rules. The book takes place in the early ‘70s when music seeped into every moment of my life. FM radio that played rock had just begun to take off. It replaced the ‘60s style of AM radio jocks who chattered as they spun top 40 songs in between dazzling commercials. The FM radio announcers all sounded stoned as they spoke thoughtful descriptions of the bands or the music they were sharing and explored album cuts beyond hit singles.

This music was inspiring. It was experimental—bluesy, folksy, or jazzy, sometimes all at once. At times it sounded like it came from outer space. There was hard rock with pounding guitars, soft rock with melodic harmonies, and acid rock meant to be listened to while tripping. There were protest songs, stories, wailing harmonicas, music sung from the gut and lyrics of poetry. It became the elastic that pulled us close to one another in ways that transcended our differences and emphasized our commonality. Our origins, race, gender, and economic background became meaningless.  

With no internet or smart phones, music was our communication and musicians became our gods. There was always a radio or a stereo and in some cases, speakers as large as a pair of doors. That stereo was the center of focus in a room and we played it with the television picture on and the sound shut off. I have no memory of what was on TV at those times, but the songs I heard work like an index for thousands of my memories. I know I can conjure up those moments into vivid images because they are tied to the music that is embedded within me.

A few years ago, my mother lay in the hospital dying. She faded in and out of consciousness, her eyes sometimes open slits, and other times fully shut as she gradually moved away from life. I wanted to give her some moments of joy as she transitioned, and I had to think about what that might be.

In her youth, she wanted to be a concert pianist, and she studied the piano for several years. Her favorite composer was Chopin. I had heard her play his music frequently in our house while I was growing up, as though she was still living a bit of that dream. I decided I would download some Chopin Sonatas and Nocturnes I remembered her playing, and I took them with me to the hospital on my phone.

As I stood beside her bed stroking her hair, I started the music. Her eyelids flickered open and her breathing took on a different pace after a few minutes, a pace of calm. I wondered if she was reliving her fingers gliding across the piano keys, sensing their movement as she tapped out the notes that sometimes came in rapid succession. I couldn’t tell if she was enjoying it, but it felt to me like an essential component of her life—one of her happier ones.      

Chopin is also part of my life’s soundtrack. When I hear his compositions, it connects me to my mother. I can feel her in the room. Both piano classics and classic rock make up the music that plays inside me.

The piano she played now sits in my living room, aging and worn, and in need of tuning. I’ve been promising myself to get that done. I want to start taking piano lessons. I did play for some time as a child, but never well enough to play classics. Am I too old to do that now? I don’t care what else I learn to play on the piano, except to play Chopin. Maybe one or two pieces will be enough, so I can understand what it feels like to make those beautiful sounds flow from my fingers and run through my body like waves as I feel my mother live on beside me.