Bench Seats, Oh Yeah
Mary and I were driving around the other day listening to music on Tidal when “Oh Yeah” by Roxy Music came on my Daily Discovery playlist. I immediately thought about how much I liked the song and how strange it was that I had not heard it in years. Even though I have always loved music, I rarely pay attention to lyrics. I know that probably sounds insane to people who care deeply about songwriting, but I mostly hear the voice as another instrument. I hear mood, texture, atmosphere, timbre, and rhythm. Half the time I could not tell you what a song is actually about even if I have listened to it for forty years.
So while the song was playing, I asked Mary what “Oh Yeah” was about. She laughed and said it was basically about driving around with your girlfriend while music played in the car.
Of course it was.
A few days later when I was driving back from work I actually listened to the lyrics for the first time ever. Right near the beginning are the lines:
“How can we drive to a movie show
When the music is here in my car?”
That pretty much sums up an entire generation.
Back then, driving around actually was something you did. You could leave the house with no real destination and still somehow have a great night. Half the time you were supposedly going to a movie or getting something to eat, but the drive itself became half the fun. You listened to music, talked, sat in parking lots longer than necessary, and somehow an entire evening disappeared without anybody checking a phone once.
And honestly, bench seats deserve more respect than they get. Bucket seats ruined an entire level of dating intimacy. With a bench seat, your girlfriend could slide right next to you while the radio glowed in the dashboard and music came through speakers that sounded terribly perfect. Younger people will never fully understand how important that extra two feet of seat space really was.
You would sit in parking lots talking while the song finished. You would stay in the driveway after getting home because nobody wanted to shut the car off in the middle of a good song. Sometimes you drove around an extra twenty minutes because somebody put in the right cassette and suddenly nobody was in a hurry anymore. You would even listen to the song two times or more.
“And so it came to be our song
And so on through all summer long
Day and night, drifting into love.”
That part brought back a flood of memories because songs really did become attached to people. You hear the opening few seconds of certain songs and instantly remember exactly who was sitting next to you, what car you were driving, what season it was, and probably what jacket you had on.
I started thinking about driving around with my high school girlfriend Elizabeth while listening to The Wall on one side of a cassette and Miles Davis on the other. I still have that tape. I found it recently while putting together the music wall in my house. The case is cracked, the label is peeling off, and it probably sounds awful now, but the second I found it I knew exactly where it came from.
I thought about driving around the University of Illinois late at night. Driving through Chicago with girlfriends while music filled the car. Back then, albums stayed with you for months or years because that was what you had. You replayed them constantly. Songs attached themselves to periods of your life because they were always there.
One album could own an entire summer.
Mary had a gold ’67 Chevy II, and we went everywhere in that car. It was HER car, so I was the one sliding over toward her on the bench seat. The floor was covered with cassette tapes from every kind of music imaginable. 70s rock, jazz, industrial music, random mix tapes, albums that made absolutely no sense sitting next to each other. We drove with the windows down and music loud enough that conversation became optional.
That was part of it too. You did not always need to say something. The music carried your voices.
I think younger people missed something with that whole era of driving and music. Today every song ever recorded is available instantly, but because of that, music almost feels temporary now. Back then you lived with albums. You wore them out. You memorized little sounds in songs without even trying. Music became tied to actual memories because it stayed around long enough to permanently connect itself to your life.
The song changes near the end when he sings:
“It’s some time since we said goodbye
And now we lead our separate lives
But where am I? Where can I go?”
That section feels completely different hearing it now than it probably would have when I first heard the song years ago. By this point in life, most of us have songs connected to people we no longer see. Old girlfriends. Old friends. People who once sat next to us in cars for entire summers who slowly became part of another chapter of life while somehow the music stayed exactly the same.
“And it’s drowning the sound of my tears.”
What I like about the song now is that it understands nostalgia correctly. It is not really about wanting your old life back. It is about realizing how important ordinary moments actually were while you were living them.
Nobody thought, “Remember this forever.” You were just driving around listening to music. But somehow those nights stayed with you anyway.
Even now, when I hear certain songs, I can still remember the feel of an old car door closing, dashboard lights glowing at night, cassette tapes sliding around on the floor during turns, and that feeling you had when you were younger that life was still stretching way out in front of you.
Music stores pieces of your life whether you realize it or not.
So now I’m curious. What was your song? Who were you with when it played? And if you heard it right now, where would it take you?
About Greenland Sharks
Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.
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