Guest Essay #13
by Jade Visone 

Almost every core childhood memory unlocked.  And I wasn’t even ready for it.

Transported in mere MOMENTS back to 1980 at my childhood home in Highlands, NJ, one block from the bulkhead and baitshop, I found myself drowning in flashbacks of my parents’ living room.

It literally took 4 piano notes.  And I was there.

The hissing radiator, I was afraid to dare touch, the ugly ass couches one against each wall, and my mom’s teak entertainment center stocked fully with a bad ass record player and FULL of vinyls.  Because music was always so important to them, it was and is now, to me.

But I wasn’t prepared for those first four notes, because never before, not even when I saw New Kids on the Block front row with a friend in 7th grade (you know who you are) and was literally teen level obsessed with Donnie Whalberg, did I ever cry at a concert. 

This hit me like a tons of bricks.

Every 80’s party my parents had, was filled with beer, joints (sorry ma), chips and onion dip (that I liked to eat using one soggy chip as a shovel), friends, kids, laughter, probably a decent amount of adult irresponsibility, was filled with sinners. Young boomer parents, some childless, enjoying each other’s company, joy, and most importantly music.   But hey, only the good die young, right? 

That teak entertainment center and the record player has always been the centerpoint of that house, in my mind. And probably every home afterwards: it traveled with us over our moves my whole childhood, so it kind of supported me, felt familiar,  like a weird stiff wooden sibling I never wanted to see leave.  And honestly, the heart of the wall unit was the record player stocked with mom and dad’s vinyls exploding with the Beatles, Led Zeppelin,  Dire Straits, Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd (my dad wanted to name me Cymbaline, but mom won with another hippie moniker), and the great fucking Piano Man, Billy Joel, to name just a few.

I’d spin in circles to Billy Joel’s albums.
Glass Houses was my go to at age 4 and 5.

Sometimes chasing my childhood bestie Jennifer Ludwig Kofkee (my Jenny) in circles, at said adult parties in front of my brother, Teak Wall Unit, was all I needed in the world.  We would run in an unending circle in our Muppets nightgowns, feet black with filth from playing outside ALL DAMN DAY, and chase each other until we literally collapsed on each other laughing as hard as only 4 year olds could.

All the Billy Songs were *it* for us.  Every, damn one.   Every happy, lighthearted,  family/friend connected, joyous memory of my childhood was surrounded by Brenda and Eddie, Vienna, Virginia, Alexa, and most importantly,  the Piano Man.

And in those first 4 notes at Madison Square Garden, I was catapulted back to my happiest childhood self, before any problems, or perhaps my lack of awareness to them.

Frank and I sang every fucking word to every fucking song. It felt like I’d finally got a chance to meet this most magnificent, legendary, genius Long Island asshole (and I say that in the BEST possible Jersey way) that told the realest, truest, most beautiful stories about living in NYC and NJ, that will ever live.

Wrapped in that glory of his voice, and performing like it’s absolutely no big deal at 74– a week post covid infecrion, were his hands.  

Those aged, strong, curved, nimble, piano-key molded hands.  They moved without trying, they slid across those keys as if he was still 25, and he still did it with a harmonica anchored to his neck.  It surprisingly made me a little sad.

Because I wanted to hold on a little longer.  The thought of how much time he has left (and how much time I had left melting into his live songs,) this song writing, piano GENIUS, wouldn’t escape my thoughts.  We have lost so many of the good ones, but even more of the great ones.  And I never want this kind of music to simply disappear into Spotify, Amazon, or ITunes.

My point in all of this, if you’ve read this far (and you’re not my grandmother or my mom😆) is go fucking see Billy Joel.  It was something I can’t even describe, for I feel I have failed at trying here: he is just that great.  I’ll never be the same.  I’m so grateful to my husband for bringing me and sharing his piano tickling, epically caramel voice with me.  Add that to one of my best *new* core memories. And thanks, mama (and even my dad), for opening my childhood music zipper to allow my life to be filled with all the best things music does to one’s heart.
Jade Visone is a mom of four,  an enthusiast of life’s real and raw, and a writer that loves woven words that deliver passion with a  gut-punch.