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In the late 1990s, my husband, Drew, was a guitarist and singer in the South Catherine Street Jug Band, a six-member rootsy rock group based in Plattsburgh, way up in the north of New York state. In their school bus, outfitted with bunk beds and lounge chairs, the band rolled to cities and towns across the Northeast, gigging at bars and clubs, colleges and music festivals. They sold lots of albums, played for decent-size crowds and were embraced here in the North Country, where bartenders and local radio stations broadcast their tunes—especially Drew's song, "Jodie Lynn."
It's a passionate love song about his ex-girlfriend: he howls at her door, she glows like an angel, her long, dark hair billows in the wind. The band jams feverishly as Drew sings:
Jodie Lynn, I love you, baby
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Jodie Lynn, I love you, baby
I love you, baby
I love you, baby
I love you, baby
You get the point. Audiences went nuts for it, and it became a favorite among local music critics. Even my closest friends cranked "Jodie Lynn" full volume at parties, recorded it to mix tapes or, when the band played it live, danced wildly. "Sorry," they'd say to me, "but I just love this song." I couldn't go to one of Drew's shows without hearing it, that "I love you" chorus overwhelming me, the envy penetrating my heart, my ears growing scarlet and hot.
Drew wrote his song about Jodie Lynn long before we ever met. But by the time their love fizzled and Drew and I were together, I hated that ballad and desperately wished he had just spray-painted his feelings for her on a water tower or a bridge or even tattooed her name on his arm. You can cover graffiti and laser off tattoos, but music has staying power. "It's just a song," Drew would say. I knew it was—or once had been—a lot more. As a musician, I carry specific melodies and lyrics beneath my skin: some connected to happiness or heartache, others soundtracks for definitive times and places. Plus, delivering intimate sentiments through a tune offers cover, a chance for full disclosure and release, minus the vulnerability of simply announcing your feelings to a packed house.
I also knew I was being bratty. Passion fuels creativity, and because of it the planet is full of brilliant orchestral works, literature, poetry, paintings, architecture. Still, even the most confident, secure person has to feel an itch of jealousy knowing it was another who inspired work so terrific, so enjoyed and appreciated by others. I remember Pattie Boyd, who famously was the object of George Harrison and Eric Clapton's affections and the subject of Harrison's "Something" and Clapton's "Layla," among others, and wonder how the later lovers of those musicians could ever even listen to the radio.
The jug band broke up a couple of years ago. Gone are Drew's stretches away, on the road, and his endless nights on smoky stages. Drew and I were recently married, and we bought a little house in the Adirondack Mountains on a bank of a soothing, noisy river. We think it's a dreamy life: sipping our morning coffee by the wood stove; hiking with our dog, Gwen; relishing our late-night jam sessions—Drew strums his guitar and I accompany him on my fiddle.
And Drew wrote me a song, too. It's a love song, but without frantic picking, repetitive testaments of his feelings or braying at the moon. There's no drum kit or electric guitar. It's calm, tender and thoughtful, the melody simple, light and lovely. When he recorded it in the studio, he even requested that I bow the harmonies.
In it, he says he's been waiting for someone to come along. He asks how he could write his words to make them sound sincere, or find the strength to conquer all he fears; how he found the music in his ears, and how it felt so right when suddenly I appeared. It's because, he sings, "It's in your eyes; It's real."
That song means everything to me. It captures where we are now, just as, I suppose, "Jodie Lynn" freezes Drew's state of mind—and hers—back then. I'm glad Jodie Lynn and I have our songs. And I guess I'm also really glad Drew didn't decide to honor with her a tattoo.
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