Music Feeds the Muse: What’s a Song Between Friends?

“Anyway the wind blows doesn’t really matter to me.”
Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen

Neither of us could sing, but we didn’t care. Larry and I were just two friends perpetually out on another stretch of road on another summer night with Queen’s Greatest Hits in the tape player, and that meant we were singing.

Find – me – somebody – to – love.

Find – me – somebody – to – love.

SOMEBODY – somebody – SOMEBODY – somebody

We loved the harmonies and operatic theatrics of Queen’s brand of rock and roll, and our favorite tune of all was Bohemian Rhapsody.

When the movie Wayne’s World debuted, I was glad to see that others enjoyed the song as much as we did. In the film, there’s a scene of Wayne and his pals, in a car, singing along (and playing air guitar) with that very song with reckless abandon.

Shared music, for me, is one of the great joys of friendship, and it was a particular joy of my friendship with Larry. It was an odd friendship in many ways. One moment we were belting out a song together, the next we were having a heated debate about some inane thing like the existence of extraterrestrials or the consistency of perception, and then we were singing again.

That neither of us could sing or win a debate, well, doesn’t really matter to me.

Larry unexpectedly and far too prematurely passed away some years ago. Now, every time I hear Bohemian Rhapsody, I think of him. Our duets, our heated debates, and my longing to see him just once more inspired the following poem. Writing it didn’t make me cry; it made me laugh, and it sent me searching for a video of our song. I found one of Edgar Cruz playing it on classical guitar. It follows the poem. I think Larry would have liked it.

Somethin’

Larry, you jerk,
dying in your thirties.
That’s so like you.

You always knew
how
to
push
my
buttons.

Did it ever occur to you
that you can’t
come back
from
a fatal
heart
attack?

Of course not.
You had to play your joke.

Now I’ve got no one
to sing Poncho and Lefty with,
let alone Bohemian Rhapsody.

And what am I to do
when it’s one A.M.
and I want to eat breakfast
and talk about movies
and women
and strange things no sane person
could ever believe?

I haven’t had a good argument in years.
I haven’t raised my voice
or felt that heat rising up from my neck
in ages and ages and ages.

At the very least,
you could haunt me,
knock a few things off the countertop,
rattle some chains in my garage,
write insults with Carol’s lipstick
on my bathroom mirror.

Jesus, man. Give me somethin’.

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