1.
My parents kept a modest record collection in the dining room. It mostly went unused, and since I never took interest in the Bay City Rollers and since The Andy Williams Christmas Album seemed worthless 11 (if not 12) months out of the year, my older sister, rather than mom and dad, happened to shape my earliest memories of music. Eight years my senior, she was not inclined to influence the tastes of her younger brothers, least of all me, but when she brought her favorite mixed tape to our uncle's summer cottage, she had that effect on me, anyway. Aside from one anomaly—a hit by Sir Mix-a-Lot (yes indeed, his ode to big butts)--the tape was comprised of songs by Billy Joel.
I recall laying down on a sleeping bag inside a pup tent beside a battery-powered tape deck and fixating on the sonic portraits this man I took to be a legend had to sing about. His outlook on the baffling world of adults fascinated me and he struck me as a sincere storyteller.
Years later, having developed a more critical account of things that occasionally yields some wisdom, I see that Billy Joel matters as a weary yet passionate performer (“Piano Man”), a survivor of atrocities (“Goodnight Saigon”), and a History teacher who sported shades 'cause he wanted to look tough (“We Didn't Start the Fire”). He is also a cranky individualist (“My Life”), a lover of Motown doo-wop who couldn't quite do justice to that sound (“The Longest Time”), and an imitator of John Travolta's theatrical flair in the movie-musical Grease (“Uptown Girl”). All those songs were included on my sister's mixed tape.
In the pantheon of rock and roll, Billy Joel is not the greatest, but when we consider how wildly he spanned the spectrum of excellence and mediocrity, he is perhaps the most definitively human. For my money, Billy Joel is our foremost expeditionary of both sublimity and crap.
Before elaborating on the Billy Joel state of mind, I should tell you how my first tape deck concert ended: My dad stormed into the backyard, unzipped the tent, shined a flashlight in my eyes, and told me to turn off the racket and go to sleep.
2.
Like my dad, Billy Joel is a Baby Boomer. They were both born in the month of May, in 1951 and 1949, respectively, right in the thick of what must have been a truly swell time to reproduce in America. They were of the generation that sprouted proudly from G.I. Bills and victory in Europe and Japan and was later subjected to draft lotteries and failure in Vietnam. It was a generation of free spirits who rode their motorcycles in the rain only to be plagued by the temptation to become snotty big shots when they reached middle-age. The Boomer lifespan is characterized by jarring changes and restless ebbs and flows.
A Boomer can tell you a lot about human progress, but he can tell you just as much about human limitations.
Billy Joel, like family, stirs conflicted feelings in me, and I doubt I'm alone. Regarding both, I err on the side of love because if I don't life seems a bit shittier. Billy Joel has not instilled in me consistent adoration in me as The Beatles or Beastie Boys have done, but the same goes for my family and their paling to all those funny drunk dudes and beautiful heroines that I knew in college. I'm amazed by my dad. He's awake by six every morning and eager to fix a snow-blower at 6:05—and I have no idea what that's like.
But I've been embarrassed by my dad, too. The fatherly comparisons to Billy Joel listed soon are not auto-biographical, but this one is: My dad referred to fried potato wedges as “wedgies,” and when I had two friends over for a sleep-over in grade school, while we distributed portions of chicken and appetizers at the kitchen table, he straightforwardly asked them, “Would you guys like some wedgies?” He had no clue why they laughed at him, and when our definition of “wedgie” was explained to him, he shook his head and said, “Pfft. Those are called undie-grundies.”
In that instance, dad pulled a real “Keeping the Faith.” It was embarrassing—but at least the old man didn't intend it that way.
What I've done, then, is compile a list of BJ tunes which evoke memories and portraits of dads. Because, to my generation—the one after X that precedes the Half-Second Attention Span Generation, brought to you by China generation—Billy Joel is the embodiment of Everyman's dad.
3.
“Piano Man”
Dad experienced his prime before he even realized it. He was wise beyond his years at a time when his wisdom had little to do with coping with age. At parties, dad captivated rooms, made those rooms as vibrant as carnivals, even when he was scrutinizing others, holding them under microscopes but without scorn. He toasted his fellow man and slept with waitresses he only loved for one night, but he was destined for bigger and better things since he knew something they didn't. He really did. It's just that, years later, he'd learn about the things they knew that he didn't, like the fact that not all sorrows are especially romantic.
More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.
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