Even before driving out of the parking lot, I hit pause on my audiobook. It was too much to concentrate on the storyline when I was in a fog at day’s end. It had been a rough couple of days and silence was the best antidote to the constant chatter. It was late and already dark with the car still warm from the afternoon heat. Dulled senses and decompression for the ride home.
My mind drifted to September and the kids wanting to get back into gymnastics. Both also wanted to play drums and my elder wanted to try bass guitar in addition to the viola she was already due to start in band. Ambitious. The complaints would surely come rolling in from the landlord.
I wound down the windows to air out the stuffy cabin. I could smell hot asphalt choking the miles of narrowed lanes. The night sky was lit up with work lights and heavy with noise.
Where would my children play? There was always grandma’s garage. I couldn’t help but smile a little to imagine my son 10 years from now queuing up to play a favorite with the garage door open onto the street. Fingers, sticks, and an auburn, curly mop would be flying.
What songs would he play? Parents always believe the tracks in their collection are the best. From the pluck of a galloping bass in a Sister Sledge disco hit to a synth tour de force on a live Talking Heads track, of course he’d scan my playlists.
I imagined my own dreamscape and what I’d play along beside him. Camel. I’d definitely play Camel.
Every song has a lineage tracing back to the first ears who heard them. In my catalog, Camel in particular is interesting.
It begins with two metalheads in Maryland in the early 2000s. My husband was attending school and met a dynamic pair of friends just as steel as they were smart. They were not to be misunderstood by their long hair or loud music, though. Both were mechanical engineering students. They introduced my husband to a Swedish band called Opeth that quickly became a frequent spin on Apple Music. “Demon of the Fall” was the first track my husband heard.
I was 19, engaged, and had no choice but to eventually become a casual fan. On one of their live records, Lamentations (Live at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, London) was a track called “Ending Credits”. As the applause dies down, the lead singer drops a hint.
It’s totally ripped off from a band called Camel.
Mikael Åkerfeld, lead singer
Then started the hunt to match melodies. At the time, we were due to travel to Pittsburg for a job interview and put on Mirage by Camel for the first time during a snow storm. To this day, a flash of windswept snowflakes comes with the opening drum snare of “Freefall”.
The comment turned out to be somewhat of a red herring, as we never found exactly the matching track or really the feel. We were led on a (snow) goose chase.
Hey Siri, play A Live Record by Camel
I was looking for “Ligging at Louis”, my pound your heart out drum dream. It was number three of my favorite tracks of all time. The gray and peeling paint of my mother’s garage came into view with drum sets side by side as my son and I staged our progressive rock performance for an unsuspecting neighborhood. Reggae would have to be put on pause. We’d trade off mid bar and strike in time to magnify the most revelrous stretches.
My daughter would come in on the guitar solos with two strand twists bobbing over her strings and of course glitter nails because she’s fancy.
Damn, there has to be someone on the synth. Shit, okay, someone else is on synth. A classmate. With a mullet or shag haircut because some styles can be resurrected with some good rebranding.
Anyway, no crowd would gather. There would be a few head bobs from across the street from a few passing fans.
“I know that’s right!” A lone auntie would clap jubilantly from afar.
There’s tracks that you have to speed for. You have to have the windows down and turn it up for someone to catch the sound of a crying guitar. The music needed to fill your insides until you became the drummer, the bassist, the keyboardist, the fan, and every bit of the sheet music.
I was tearing down the highway at 10pm, bemused by my pretend garage band but also remembering. A guitar string was a timeline with my slide ring gliding back and forth to the places I’ve been and the music I’ve banged my head to as an almost metal head.
There was only the darkness, white lines, and cymbal crashes.
I got home to my children who are still tiny and losing teeth. They’re not musicians yet but they might be. My son crawled into bed with me. He’d missed me terribly and started crying when I told him to sleep in his own bed. So many comforting hugs and kisses followed. Some promises too, but I try to be honest because he has an excellent memory for them.
I was tired and didn’t last an hour at home before shutting off the lights and settling in, feeling a whole lot better than I did hours before.
I guess that how you really strip off the day.
As a reader of The Sample, I get interesting newsletters delivered daily. I recently got to check out Let Your Life Speak by Asha Sanakar, with a devastatingly good piece in remembrance of her father.
At first I couldn't believe it was THE SAME Camel of 70's Prog, but as your article went on, and then I listened to the YouTube clip, I knew that was real-deal core Prog. As my main influences are The Partridge Family, ELP, and Renaissance, I wish you all the best with your family garage prog. I had to become a soloist.
This was a fun read. I remember drives like this one with different music, different memories. There is something about the thrum of tires on asphalt and music played loud in a car (even if it is in your own head) that clears out the valves just beautifully.