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Summer Soundtrack

The singer looms tall in boots and a black Stetson. He’s got a ZZ Top beard and a gleam in his eye. He says the name of his band and thanks us all for coming out to see them.

“What’s your name?” someone shouts from the crowd.

The singer hesitates. “Rusty Shackleton,” he growls in a rumbling drawl. He throws the crowd a mischievous grin. “Not gonna tell you my real name.”

The Kook guffaws and waves his arms. “Don’t tell ‘em your real name!” he shouts.

The Kook has been dancing wildly in front of the band for the past half hour. He tells us he’s a carnival worker from Florida and is here for only a week or so. He doesn’t know where he’s headed next.

My glass is sweating, and the ice is melted before I’m even half through with my drink. There’s no air conditioner in this place, just fans.

This isn’t my usual stomping grounds, and when the band fires up a song about being far from home, I can relate. I feel like I’m deep down below the Mason-Dixon line. I’m only a few towns away from my house, though.

The band is playing country, which isn’t what I usually cue up in the car. I don’t know most of the songs, but this is fine for summer listening. During this time of year, I gravitate away from my usual alternative (and slightly goth) playlist. I don’t want to hear music that reminds me of college and cold autumn days. I want music that’s bouncier and more upbeat. I want pop, rock, and Motown. I can even go a little country sometimes, which is why I’m here.

I watch The Kook in his stars-n-stripes Stetson bob in front of the band like a parakeet as they play one about not leaving before your time. There’s an upside-down Christmas tree covered in red, white, and blue ornaments hanging from a corner of the ceiling. The giant TV is playing a baseball game. If this scene doesn’t encapsulate the month of July in America, I don’t know what would.

A friend gives The Kook a fake name when he asks for it. As she dances with him, I dance with an older gent wearing, you guessed it, a Stetson. Everyone gets up and dances to “East Bound and Down.”

A rumor goes around the bar that Yolanda (fake name) is going to take up with The Kook. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

When the band ends its final set, a few of us go outside to the porch where there’s a breeze. We talk about what to do next. The Kook comes out, hat in hand, and tells us that he’s sweating.

“Hoo-ahhh, it’s a hot one!” He waves his hat in front of his face. “Might as well be back home!”

We decide to go to one more place since it’s still early. This one will have air conditioning.

When I get in my car and pull out of the parking lot, I crank up some seventies pop music. This is a little more my style than country. I’ve enjoyed every minute of the music on this night, don’t get me wrong. I just need to switch it up for a bit. It’s then that I realize something. Summer has a soundtrack.

Summer is muttered fake names and whispered rumors. It’s fireworks booming and fans whirring. It’s music that you turn up because you need something light in mood and heavy in sound. It’s country and pop. Jerry Reed and Jackson 5. It’s Beach Boys.

At the next place there’s karaoke happening, and it’s loud. It’s all the summer music we could want, and we stay until we’re told it’s time to leave.

As I walk to my car, this time to finally go home, I hear my favorite music from the summer soundtrack. It’s a melody sung by a chorus of frogs in the marsh. I roll slowly out of the parking lot, windows open and stereo silenced to listen.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category, and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.