I took my daughter on a road trip to Alabama for the 4th of July. Actually, she took me.
My late husband always did the road trip driving, and Amelia has stepped into his role with surprising authority. I offered to drive part of the way, but she declined. Jeff didn’t like my driving, and apparently, she doesn’t either.
It’s fine by me. Even I don’t like my driving.
When Amelia drove us to Alabama at Christmas, we were a both a mess. We’d just lost her dad in September, and I think we cried most of the way to Mom’s. This time, it was different. This time we did a lot more laughing than crying. And not just because we saw more “Drunkards, Liars, and Fornicators are Going to Hell” billboards than usual.
We’re getting better.
One way I know that – besides the laughing – is that we also did a lot of singing on this trip. We sang our way to Alabama, and we sang our way back.
In between, we sang at my sister’s house on Stouts Mountain, near Hanceville, AL. No, not Huntsville. Hanceville. I’d never heard of it, either, until my sister and her husband built their charming farmhouse a few years ago. Incidentally, Stouts Mountain isn’t really a mountain. More like a very tall hill. But compared to the SC Lowcountry, it feels almost Everest-like.
And it’s a farmhouse, y’all. Who doesn’t love a farmhouse for the Fourth? There’s even an aspiring farm to go with it. Two gardens, a pond for fishing, and possible chickens in the future . . .
But back to the singing. Man, did we ever!
As a family of four musical sisters – with parents who church choir’d and community theatre’d– we’ve always been a bit more sing-songy than your average bears… with an emphasis on show tunes. (I’m sorry, but it’s true.) Throw in a couple of teenage nieces who attend Charleston School of the Arts – as vocal majors – and perform regularly with the South of Broadway Children’s Theatre, and we can be downright obnoxious when we all get together.
This year, a new (old) sound entered the scene. Since I last saw them – or sang with them, anyway – two of my brothers-in-law have become obsessed with yacht rock.
Unsure how to define yacht rock, exactly – though I know it when I hear it – I confess, reader, I turned to my arch nemesis/BFF, Google AI, which described it as “highly polished, West Coast-style soft rock from the late 1970s and early 1980s… defined by smooth, jazz-inspired harmonies, pristine studio production, and R&B influences.”
In other words – the pop music of my youth, which was later considered “elevator music,” before finding a cool new life – with a cool new name – back in the aughts.
We’re talking about artists like Hall & Oats, Steely Dan, Kenny Loggins, Christopher Cross, and the godfather of yacht rock, himself, one Michael McDonald.
I did not know I liked yacht rock until my brother-in-law Don started blasting it by my sister’s pool, on a marvelous contraption that I, still stuck in the era when this music first occurred, can only refer to as a “jam box.” (I’m quite certain that’s not what it’s called.) We floated around in the pool for three days straight, drinking grapefruit & vodkas, singing loud and proud. (We were on a farm, remember, in the mountainous middle of nowhere. No neighbors to disturb.) Yacht rock is highly singable. And as it turns out, I know every single word to every single song. Hundreds of them. They’re just up there in my head, rattling around, taking up space that could probably be put to much better use. Who knew?
I have a feeling my bros-in-law, with their deep affection for this musical genre, are no different from most middle-aged white guys across the USA, so the fact that yacht rock became our soundtrack for the Fourth weekend felt vaguely patriotic. This is AMERICAN music, right? You don’t actually have to own a yacht.
And while we’re avoiding any whiff of elitism, let’s avoid accusations of racism, too, by noting that we also listened to a ton of Michael Jackson at the farm. ‘Billie Jean’ seemed to be the family favorite singalong, though I have always been a ‘PYT’ girl, myself. Unless, of course, we’re talking about The Jackson Five, in which case I’d probably have to go with ‘I Want You Back’ or ‘The Love You Save.’
At some point, late every afternoon, a summer storm would swirl up and we’d drag our sunburned, waterlogged bodies to the farmhouse porch, where we’d bundle up in towels – or change into PJs – and put on some music, and sing some more. Typically, show tunes. Or Sara Bareilles. Or Sara Bareilles singing show tunes. (My sisters are big fans of Waitress.)
My brother-in-law, Ben Polk – of the Beaufort Polks, so you know he’s musical – is nigh-on reverent when it comes to the Rodgers & Hammerstein classic, Carousel. He’ll probably kill me for writing this, but I think he was actually praying as the rest of us sang along with Broadway’s latest Billy Bigelow (Joshua Henry) performing ‘Soliloquy.’ (‘My boy Bill, I will see that he’s named after me…I will…’ ) It may be a father-of-girls thing.
One afternoon, we watched a video of those girls, my nieces, performing in their school’s Spring Concert, which was Country-themed. Being members of the aforementioned Polk family, both girls had solos. Ellie crushed a stanza of ‘Jolene’ with her signature sass, and Sadie sang a verse of ‘I Will Always Love You’ like the angel she is. (Dolly Parton had better watch out for these two; they’re comin’ for her job.) The rest of us allowed the girls to sing their solos – solo – then sang along with all the other numbers in the show. And we’re not even Country music fans.
All families do this, right? RIGHT?
On the way back to Beaufort, I grudgingly allowed Amelia to listen to the new Harry Styles album. (She was driving, after all, and had been such a good sport about the yacht rock and the show tunes.) I didn’t know the songs and couldn’t sing along, which was vexing. But not to worry. Soon enough, we came upon a lovely song Harry reportedly wrote about watching a friend hear ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ for the first time.
You know what happened then, don’t you, reader? Of course you do. At Mother’s urging, we steered away from the stylings of young Mr. Styles and were onto a Simon & Garfunkel song fest in short order. “Bridge,” “The Boxer,” “Mrs. Robinson,” and – of course – “America.” After that, it was ELO, Crosby Stills & Nash, The Allman Brothers (for Jeff), and Journey… all the way home. (Old Journey, not new. It matters.) Oh, and Boston. How could I forget Boston?
No self-respecting American of a certain age lets a good road trip come and go without bellowing “More Than a Feeling” at least a couple of times.
It simply isn’t done.
