My first musical crush was Stevie Nicks, all scarves, tambourines and husky come-hither voice.
As a high-school freshman, I obsessed over Stevie’s voice on Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” album.
Was she singing to me?
... but listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness, like a heartbeat drives you mad, in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost.
The analogy wasn’t perfect, though: I hadn’t had a girlfriend yet to lose.
My relationship with Stevie eventually cooled, as all infatuations do. And although you never forget your first crush, you usually have another.
In my case, it was five — the five women in the Go-Go’s. Not only did all five sing; they also played their own instruments. Nothing beats girls with guitars.
They were all I could talk about. To humor me, a buddy (thanks, Brian) went with me to see them in concert in 1983. I’ll never forget the crowd at Miami University’s Millett Hall in Oxford dancing to “Our Lips Are Sealed” and “Skidmarks on My Heart.”
The group disbanded after just three albums. Without new music to keep me interested, we drifted apart.
Through the years, my musical crushes came and went: Maria McKee, lead singer/guitarist in Lone Justice, had a smile that made my stomach feel funny; the photogenic Shania Twain could sing and play the guitar (and I knew she shouldn’t have married Mutt Lange); and the women of the Dixie Chicks were smart and attractive and played their own instruments, but we had a falling-out over politics.
Needing a break, I started listening to Irish music. I really enjoyed the three sisters from the Corrs and whoever played fiddle for Gaelic Storm at the time, but I never got the squiggly feeling that defines a crush.
Maybe I was getting old.
Then CD102.5 lifted me out of a decade-long funk. The FM station started playing an upbeat, dreamy song with jangly guitar. About a week later, I caught the name: “Plimsoll Punks” by Alvvays.
While driving home one December evening, I heard disc jockey Lesley James announce that caller No. 5 would win two passes to see Alvvays in the Big Room. I called repeatedly but never got through. I was devastated.
Then I thought: “Don’t quit. The young me wouldn’t have given up.”
A few minutes later, I called again, and Lesley answered. In one breath, I explained my big crush on Alvvays and how I tried to call to win passes but hadn’t gotten through and was there any way she could just let me in?
She laughed and said, “Sure,” leaving me shuddering in delight.
To be honest, though, I knew little about the band except the one song. Was I rushing things?
I asked one of my sons to go with me. I knew the music wasn’t something he would normally listen to, but he agreed (thanks, Ben).
I found love at first sight.
At the start of the live-on-the-air show, the DJ interviewed lead singer Molly Rankin, who held a Fender Duo-Sonic guitar. She was funny and self-deprecating in explaining that her dad was in the Rankin Family of Irish-music fame, but that she’d started a band only after she failed at everything else she’d tried.
Molly’s lyrics and singing exhibit a certain vulnerability and sadness, but her music is so upbeat that it compels a smile.
I am smitten.
Randy Imwalle, 55, lives in Hilliard.
Originally published in the Dispatch on March 10, 2018
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