Music often plays a part in the Overeems’ social gatherings, and over time I have finally learned not to try to exert control over the hangout playlist. I mean, I am obsessed, my knowledge base is wide and deep, and honestly, if you ever notice me sitting silently in contemplation, I’m probably not contemplating the nature of existence. I am more likely wondering, for example, who played that great guitar on so many Joe Tex hits (note: probably Jimmy Johnson). Seriously.
Last night, we spent some deeply pleasurable time with our friends Janet and David. We picked them up, drove to one of our current favorite getaways, Fulton, Missouri, ate delicious Cajun food at Fontenot’s, and came back to their place to sip maple syrup Old Fashioneds. Main topic of conversation: ol’ Adolf’s single testicle. However, the really weird thing was, I didn’t make a single musical suggestion or try to take over Spotify in the car, and the results couldn’t have been better:
On the way to Fulton:
The full album, containing this, chosen by Nicole.
This house favorite (and several others), streaming over Fontenot’s sound system:
This delightful and fascinating classical composition, proffered by David, an expert in such things (he also, generous man that he is, gave us a copy):
This splendid Carmen McRae live album I’d never heard of, chosen by David to demonstrate his $16,000 turntable that looked like something a cat burgler’d need a glass cutter just to operate:
And these two ol’ chestnuts, demanded by Janet when David returned to Shostakovich and would not let us be (always the Russians these days!):
All very satisfying to me, and I didn’t raise a finger or voice a request. I might even place myself under Russian influence again today.
Early in the day, Nicole, our friend Denise, and I participated in Columbia’s iteration of the national March for Our Lives against gun violence.
Sometimes you don’t have to a play a song; it just plays in its entirety in your head. From us, to the heroic Emma Gonzalez:
Lay down your arms, indeed.