Modern Love & Mix CDs

I spent my 21st birthday in England, my first trip abroad, visiting a friend who was studying at Reading University. The year was 2004. George W. Bush was President (a fact that some English blokes thought relevant to tease me about, nevermind who I’d voted for), smart phones and social media didn’t exist yet, and the most important things in my life were friends and music.

On one of the last nights of my stay we found ourselves at a pub (as one does when visiting England at 21.) The Americans I was hanging out with introduced me that night to a drink known as a “snakebite,” a combination of lager and cider. Snakebites, it turns out, are a confidence cocktail for a dweeby American girl with Anglophile tendencies. I saddled up to a bespectacled local lad with sandy hair, chatted him up, and invited him to a fancy party on a boat the next evening. He obliged, and arrived wearing a navy suit jacket with a band pin on the lapel, dress shirt, and jeans, which I found charming. I’d gussied up in a satin gown with spaghetti straps found at a local charity store (what they call thrift stores over the pond) that was far too long for me, and I tripped over the hem all night. His name was Joe and he was perfect. We spent the evening engrossed in conversation (mostly over shared musical tastes) and closed the evening with an innocent kiss. I never saw him again, but we mailed letters and mix CDs across the ocean back and forth for the next two years.

Back in the states I lived in a small first floor apartment off campus with a pothead roommate and unapologetically loud upstairs neighbors. On days I’d come home from class and find a package from Joe I walked on clouds. He introduced me to several artists and songs that became standard favorites and staples in my mp3 collection. In turn I’d send him my favorites, carefully writing indie rock and post-hardcore song names on pages cut out from arthouse magazines for an edgy track list. It wasn’t quite an international romance, but it was something to smile about.

I became familiar with a lot of British bands through Joe, but oddly enough his favorite band was an American outfit called The Modern Lovers, a protopunk rock band with quirky lyrics and jaunty melodies. Formed by the enigmatic Jonathan Richman in 1970, early versions of the band contained future members of The Cars and The Talking Heads. They’d already disbanded by the time their first album was released in 1976 to rave reviews, inspiring many rock and punk artists that followed. Richman continued the project as a solo act, with and without a backing band, and amassed a cult following. As Joe’s favorite band Jonathan Richman’s voice found its way to my stereo often during the remainder of my college years.

In 2024 music and friends are still pretty damn important to me, though they are no longer my life’s centerpieces. “Anyone want to to see Jonathan Richman at the Ashland Theatre?” a friend asks in our group chat, and is met with my enthusiasm. I haven’t listened to The Modern Lovers all that much lately, but damn if the name Jonathan Richman doesn’t smack me with nostalgia.

The Ashland Theatre is a 75 year-old movie theatre on the main drag in a small town about half an hour north of Richmond, Virginia. They’ve recently partnered with an entertainment group out of the city, bringing in larger acts to the theatre stage. Before the sold out show the sidewalk outside the theatre is such teeming with the sort of city folk Ashland doesn’t see much of, an eclectic mix of Generation X hipsters. Richman himself is 72 now, but he shows no signs of it slowing him down.

I’m surprised when he walks out on stage without an opener, just oft-accompanying drummer Tommy Larkin. Richman is his easily recognizable self, clad in a predictable striped shirt, slacks, and a zip up jacket. He has a French air about him, which tracks well with a song he later sings beautifully in perfect French. (And later still, another song in perfect Italian.)He opens with an almost unrecognizable cover of Dancing in the Moonlight, then steps aside from the mic and begins to shimmy in an odd rhythm while playing sleigh bells. I’m mesmerized. Richman is clearly a skilled guitar player and musician, but I wasn’t expecting the stage presence to be so delightful. His clever lyrics delivered live propel a lot of audience laughter, and he ups the ante by sprinkling in additional witty banter to the tune of the guitar. It is clear to everyone perched at the edge of our worn out theatre seats, grinning ear to ear- this man is a storyteller.

I’ve told a lot of people I’m going to this show who’ve never heard of Jonathan Richman. But they say “oh yes, that guy” when I mention that he played the troubadour in There’s Something About Mary, performing the opening titular track and musical narrative throughout the film, assisted by Larkin on a small drum. It’s a memorable performance, another brilliant artistic choice of the Farrelly brothers. Richman has a lovely deep voice, and off kilter presence that expertly blends amusement and genuineness- perfection for the narration of a comedy film. He brings this same drama to his live stage performance. I’ve seen countless live acts in my day, but Jonathan Richman stands out.

The evening is intimate and dynamic, the audience moving between riotous praise and speechless awe. We all rise for an ovation at the apparent end of the performance, which to the delight of the audience was drawn out another ten minutes, leading to much dancing. False exits subbed in for an encore, an original and even comedic move.

Tonight, a week later, I am listening to Jonathan Richman tunes via Spotify while looking back through my photo album from my trip to England. I find two grainy pictures of Joe and I, captured with a disposable camera. I still think he’s adorable. I wonder what kind of life he’s led, and if he still listens to The Modern Lovers or any of the music I introduced him to. I think about looking up him up on social media, but I realize I don’t even remember his last name. Twenty years will do that to you.

“I’m in love with the modern world,” Richman croons to us on Roadrunner, one of his more popular songs. The modern world looks a lot different than it did when he penned these lyrics over fifty years ago, and modern love sure doesn’t look much like it did for me twenty years ago. In this modern age what was once modern becomes swiftly antiquated. If I’d met Joe today we’d be exchanging playlists real-time versus burning mp3s onto plastic discs. The images captured from our short interactions would be higher quality, and there might be a greater number of them. We’d have more methods available to stay in touch. Perhaps we’d have even made the effort to see each other again. But what would have been lost in the lack of tangibility? The proof of our interactions would be entirely digital, and even as I reckon with downsizing I’m so glad to have these sentimental mementos, relics of a pre-digital world and a youthful brush with romance. There is an absence of that sensory testimony to memory when things are stored on the cloud versus held in a hand.

I don’t know whether it was Joe or myself who was the last to make contact, or how conscious either of us was of our slipping efforts. One day the packages just stopped coming. It was never really sustainable, and I don’t think we expected it to be. But it’s a moment in time of which I’m fond of reflecting, and I’m grateful for its influence. Some connections lead to dead ends, but how lucky that they splinter off into some beautiful and lasting things along the way. For now I’ve got a new appreciation for an old familiar voice, and a new memory to tuck away into my mental file of life experiences. Maybe one day 20 years from now I’ll find myself reminiscing about my night at the Ashland Theatre, singing and clapping along with the crowd while Jonathan Richman danced on stage like a rubber band. His music bridges a connection between my 2024 self and my 2004 self, and between the past versions of myself and someone I once kindof knew- a hinge marking time between what is now modern and what once was, and still undeniably timeless.