The nexus of roads in every home-work-play triad are fueled by regionally distinctive soundtracks. Here on Cape Cod, ours always includes heavy doses of Dire Straits, the Doobie Brothers and far too much rotation of The Eagles. You always get the old catalog from these artists; think ‘Rocket Man’ rather than ‘Circle of Life’. They’re the kind of tunes that induce low-grade carsickness if it’s 1982 and you’re a kid riding in the back seat of a warm car with the sun shining on your face. That’s the kind of music we can always count on hearing.
Being a slave to the radio dial was a fact of life as a kid, but I see now that I carry on the tradition unwittingly. I don’t particularly “enjoy” listening to Steve Miller’s ‘Jetliner’, but I’m doing just this while rumbling down Davis Straits, one hand on the wheel, sipping a big cup of black coffee in the other, and feeling downright cozy in a dirty flannel discovered on the floor of my vacated teenage bedroom. With all of these factors in play, it only seems fitting that these hits should be playing whenever I’m back in Falmouth or Mashpee.
And if I let my brain slip just a little bit more, I’d half suggest that I pull into Falmouth Plaza to see what is new in the CD racks at Strawberries. But I’m not completely senile; that kind of pastime faded into obscurity about 20 years ago. I still, however, maintain my CD collection back in that old bedroom of mine near the high school because, anybody with a reverence for their life’s soundtrack knows that come Armageddon, The Cloud and Spotify will cease to be a thing.
It’s always the same thing when I come back to home—especially if I find myself living abroad as I do now. At first there is a temporary sensation of unaccustomedness to everyday things. I’ll remark to myself: “Holy shit, these pickup trucks are obnoxiously huge,” or “These streets- so nice and wide and smooth!” (unless you’re driving through Rhode Island), and the best one: “I forgot that there’s a Friendlys coming up—can we stop at the takeout window?”
As pretentious or peculiar as all of that sounds, the feeling of disjointed newness is always short-lived. It’s not even a day before I’m rolled back into the heartbeat of the town. The back roads remembered, appreciating the car ahead banging a left as soon as the traffic light turns green, or simply tuning into the classic radio stations. All of this stuff travels out from my eyes, feet, and fingers because ultimately, everything is embedded in my muscle memory. Investing so many years in one place breeds a sort of unconscious peace within once you return—even the parts with crappy music that would drive you nuts if you heard it in any other place. All of it takes on a strange kind of primal importance.
I am writing this piece while home for a few days as I once again sit in a moving car and travel down Route 195. We’re on a Big Day Out off-Cape errand that encourages plenty of carsick moments—especially as my forty-year-old brain questions the wisdom of me writing in the backseat with my head down. I don’t have the same resistance built up against for motion sickness that I had as a kid, and I’d rather say that it’s best to stick with the habits that I know.
Thought it might seem unthinkable back in London, I know in my core that hearing ‘In Too Deep’ by Genesis won’t ever induce any degree of malaise when I’m back on Cape Cod. Quite the contrary- tuning in while performing normal at home stuff will always be the cure for what ails me when I find myself able to come home again. Year, after year.