On a Saturday morning during the summer of 1969 in balmy Southeast Texas, I was 11 years old and getting ready to start the fifth grade. My mother, sister, and I were preparing to go to the Jefferson City Shopping Center to purchase supplies for the coming school year.
In those days everyone wore their finest when going to the shopping center, and we had been getting ready all morning. My mother and grandmother would be in dresses, stockings, and heels, and my sister and I would be dressed in our Sunday best. Looking back, it seems ridiculous now to have dressed in such a fashion because it was so hot and humid that the minute you stepped outside, your clothes immediately felt like wet tissue paper against your skin. Finally, and nevertheless, we were ready and anticipating my grandmother's arrival in her 1957 Chevy she was so proud of. My grandparents didn't have much money back then, but my grandfather always said my grandmother could squeeze a nickel so hard that it would make the buffalo groan. He actually used a word other than 'groan,' but for polite society's sake, let's just say that a lot of buffalos 'groaned' in order to purchase that car. It was her pride and joy, and we loved riding in it with her.
As we made our way out the front door and into the oppressive heat and humidity, the familiar loud chorus of insects hummed in the background, making it seem even hotter than it was. Central air was not yet 'a thing,' and so along with the hum of the insects was the sound of ceiling fans, busily whirring throughout the neighborhood. Our stereo joined in with the chorus of sound and spilled through our open living room windows.
The stereo was the most important piece of equipment in our house, was always on, and played a variety of music. The Beatles were a constant, and my mother liked to mix in her Big Mama Thornton albums, along with Little Richard, Ike and Tina Turner, James Brown, and the blues of Etta James. My family enjoyed every kind of music there was … except jazz. I was the only one who liked jazz at that time, and the standards were my among my favorites. My mother always said jazz gave her a headache, but I loved the unusual chords and minor keys. They touched a place inside of me that is hard to define, and my love for jazz continued to grow through the years. To my mother's credit, she humored me by suffering through the occasional Mel Tormé, Nat King Cole, Tony Bennett, and, later on, Al Jarreau, Chuck Mangione, and Chick Corea records.
As we walked toward my grandmother's car, I heard Big Mama Thornton begin to fade to the background as the sounds from my grandmother's car radio faded in. She had it tuned to an oldies station, and I heard a song I'd never heard before. As the intro began, I caught my breath. I had never heard anything so hauntingly beautiful, and something very deep inside me stirred. This song was completely new to me, yet somehow felt completely familiar. The sticky heat was all at once forgotten as I became focused on a very deep emotional response I didn't understand. Tears came to my eyes, and I felt a memory surfacing that I couldn't quite remember.
"What is that song," I asked. "Who is that?"
My mother stopped walking and listened.
"That's 'Stardust,' baby, an old Hoagy Carmichael song from the 30's, I think. You know that's Nat King Cole singing it, right?"
I took in what my mother was telling me, and wondered why I was having such a reaction to this music. It was as if something significant had happened to me around this song, but I couldn't remember anything, I was only 11 years old, and it was popular long before I was born. I made a quick mental note to ask my piano teacher if she could find the sheet music so I could learn to play the song.
As we made our way to the shopping center, I couldn't stop talking about "Stardust." My mother, a longtime film fan, told me about the different movies the song had been in, and kept remarking how odd it was that I had such a reaction to it. She went on to say that it was even odder that it was Nat King Cole's version. We recalled the time when I was 5 years old and my mother took me to visit her sister-in-law, my aunt. I was playing with my cousin, Randy, in his room. Randy had received a portable record player from Santa that year. On the record player was a 45 single by Nat King Cole, "Ramblin' Rose." I played the record over and over and over again. No one could understand it, but when I heard Nat King Cole sing … I just had to have this record. It wasn't so much the song, but his voice. As young as I was, I felt I knew him, but of course, this was impossible. Always a well behaved child, I threw a temper tantrum when it was time to leave because there was no way I was leaving without that record. My mother had never seen me behave this way before, and told me we would go to the store and buy the record on the way home, but I flatly refused to leave the record behind. Despite promises, bargaining, and lots of deal-making, I left with that record in hand! My mother later had to replace my cousin's copy, and she recalled this event for years.
After searching high and low, my piano teacher did finally find the sheet music for me, but it was only available in a quartet arrangement. As you might imagine, there was not a high demand for "Stardust" sheet music in the late 60s. Nevertheless, I actively and excitedly recruited 3 other players to play it with me. They were not nearly as excited about it as I was, but we did perform it at recital that year. I went on to buy Nat King Cole's recording, and I started noticing other versions of the song in various old movies I loved to watch and that my mother had mentioned. Every time I heard the song, no matter the performer, it conjured those feelings I still cannot explain.
Years later, during college, I became a member of the Jazz Society and, in conjunction with this, worked as part of the Concert Production Committee. As happens in life, there are times and occasions when certain circumstances come together and meet. Such was the occasion when I was working a Natalie Cole concert as part of a Concert Committee Production, and she sang "Stardust" with her father accompanying her digitally. (Enter the old and unexplained reaction and response.)
As I became older, I started learning about past lives, reincarnation, and sense and emotional memories, and I thought of the emotion I always experienced with Nat King Cole and "Stardust." This is the closest I have come to understanding my reaction.
My mother and grandmother have long since left us, but I remember that day, the heat and humidity, the 57 Chevy, and the sounds from the old stereo in small town Southeast Texas. Every now and then "Stardust," will appear here and there in my life, and still affects me in the same way -- an unconscious memory that remains unremembered.
As the lyrics go, sometimes I wonder if I could handle the memory, a haunting reverie that remains a daydream in my mind.