Jimmy Buffett didn’t change my life. Unless he did.
Everyone knows Jimmy Buffett songs, by heart. I have met one person, who shall remain nameless, who, when I mention the singer/writer/entrepreneur, wrinkled her nose in a show of distaste and said, “I don’t like his music.”
It baffled me then, it baffles me now. I understand how ska or rap or country can be not your cup of music. But how can anyone dislike “Margaritaville” or “Cheeseburger in Paradise”? It isn’t a matter of taste, it’s a matter of your feet tapping on their own, your head nodding along without your consent. Some things are universal. I mean, reggae isn’t my jam, but whenever Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff” or “Stir it Up” plays on the radio, I sing along at the top of my lungs.
But then, there are people who earnestly believe that the Earth is flat.
It’s a funny thing, music. It unites us as much as food does. But it can also be deeply personal, because it can reach you at a time when you are at your most vulnerable, loneliest, happiest, saddest, angriest. A good friend once cancelled lunch on the day Prince died — it hit her so hard all she could do was stay home and cry. I didn’t really get it, although I respected it. I didn’t get it — until Leonard Cohen died. Then my grief for my “Rabbi” blotted out whatever was good that day.
