I'm not a Parakeet, but I always wanted to be one
Pondering Jimmy Buffett's legacy of ancestral music fandom.
It’s been sweet watching the remembrances of Jimmy Buffett this weekend.
“Margaritaville” has been on a loop in my head. As a human living in America, I’ve heard it enough to have the song engrained in my brain. Memories of going to Key West with my parents when I was a teenager float on the edge of my consciousness. I can hear my late friend Troy sing the alternate call-and-response lyrics that his fraternity came up with to go along with the song. (“Where’s the salt, where’s my goddamn salt?” is one of them.)
I wasn’t what you would call a Parrothead — or the offshoot, a second-generation Parakeet — but I know a thing or two about ancestral musical fandom.
The author of that article identified five stages of becoming a Parakeet: introduction to the music, education (e.g., learning all the lyrics before you can read), growing out of it (“Ugh, why are my parents so WEIRD?”), apathy (“Jimmy Buffett, who?”), acceptance of one’s fate.
My parents, having married in 1972, spent the first 10 years of their lives playing an endless stream of vinyl records and seeing as much live music as they could. (They even hosted pig roast music festivals in Springfield with the Vet’s Club that were big enough to require permits from the city.)
In an alternate timeline, they would have fallen for Jimmy Buffett, but instead, they followed the bluegrass/Americana path that led them to their all-time favorite musician: Dan Hicks.
I’ve never even met enough millennial whose parents were as obsessed with Dan Hicks as mine were, but one day, just maybe, I’ll meet someone besides my sister who can sing every lyric to “Last Train to Hicksville” or “Striking It Rich.”
Every time I go camping, I play these albums, in part a tribute to my late father, but also, because I genuinely like the music.
I’m a Parakeet, but for Dan Hicks.
There’s no collective name for the second (or third) generation fans of any other bands that I can think of, even ones with massive followings, like the Grateful Dead.
But as I thought about what I would call ancestral music fandom, I realized that it doesn’t matter what music your parents listened to on repeat. All of us have songs, albums, musicians that became the soundtrack of our youth because they were the soundtrack to the formative years of our parents’ lives.
For Frank, it’s Trio Los Panchos, a bolero trio from New York City that was popular when his mom was a young girl growing up in Cuba.
For my high school friend Abby’s kids, it will surely be the soundtrack to “Cats,” to which they already know every word.
My friends’ Zane and Tracy’s teens have already seen more Widespread Panic shows than they could possibly count.
After I went to the Grand Ole Opry earlier this year, I realized that this has been happening for a long time, longer than cassettes and CDs have been around.
So, this Labor Day weekend, my heart goes out to the Parakeets (and their Parrothead parents) who aren’t just grieving their beloved Jimmy Buffett. They are grieving a musical ancestor whose influence on their lives isn’t about the notes he played, but the memories he accompanied.
I don’t have to understand — or even like — those Hawaiian shirts and flamingo hats and sing-along songs to respect what happens when one generation passes along to the next something as special as a love of a certain kind of music.
Thanks for showing us “La Vie Dansante,” Jimmy.
The dancing life. That’s a generational gift if I’ve ever seen one.
I hope you all have had a wonderful Labor Day weekend full of sleep and streaming and catching up with friends and chores and whatever else you chose to do with your precious “free” time.
As we enter the “paid” time, I hope that you can find some ease, enjoyment and maybe even enlightenment in your labor, no matter what kind of work you do.
A few weeks ago, I did an interview with the Texas Standard about The Feminist Kitchen and my work as a dog walker, tarot card reader and — now — Swedish death cleaning organizer. (Wait, what? I know, I’m as surprised as anyone. It kinda snuck up on me.)
In this season of life, I love my unconventional “career” that includes many unpaid hours doing community service and work in the gift economy, aka Buy Nothing. (I’m an admin in my group, and I give away bags and bags of clothing and home goods from my organizing clients who are downsizing their closets. It’s seriously like a part-time job at this point, but I don’t charge them for that time.)
Over the past two years, I’ve had this realization that I know I’m on the right path when I lose track of whether I’m getting paid. It makes no difference if I’m driving a kid to a dentist appointment or driving to pick up a dog or driving to drop off a Meals on Wheels delivery. Or if I’m Zooming into an Al Anon meeting or a consulting call or a tarot reading. Or if I’m writing a Substack newsletter or a freelance article or an Instagram caption.
As I build my life without such a strong divide between “career” and “everything else,” I’ve identified my purpose: to be a bridge between the past and the future, and to help people feel seen and connected to their roots.
I don’t always get paid for this. But sometimes, thanks to people like you, I do.
So, thank you. For believing in me and this project and this new way of thinking about labor on this Labor Day.
May your work feel like Work, and your labor lead to new insights about what you were born to do.
Addie
My heart aches to hear about Jimmy Buffett – my mom was a HUGE fan too. I like what you wrote about ancestral music fandom. Every time I hear Doo Wop music, it reminds me of simpler times with my mom. She'd turn on our boombox as loud as it'd go to the oldie's station and clean the whole house. I find that I do the same thing now. I can't clean without the Ronettes playing in the background. The way you so eloquently tied together memories, music, and our roots in this post is deeply touching. Addie, you have a gift. Thank you for sharing this piece of your heart with us!!!