Melodic Memories
I always loved the smell of Barney’s Record Store.
Walking through the doors was like walking into a magical new realm for me growing up.
The sparkly ring of the bell as my dad opened the door for me was always accompanied by a symphony of smells thanks to the sticks of incense burning around the store and that oddly pleasant smell of old books that came from the vinyl rock records lining the walls and shelves.
Some of my favorite childhood memories include roaming the stacks of vinyls and CDs, pausing only to point out artists that little me loved, such as the Beatles and Tom Petty, to the man responsible for my love of music: my dad.
7-year-old Megan and her dad, Scott, at a Moody Blues show in July 2009. Photo by Karen Poquette.
He frequented this beloved record shop to order new CDs from his favorite blues and rock artists, and I treasured every opportunity I had to immerse myself in that world of encapsulating guitar solos and smoky serenades.
I was raised on all forms of rock. From classic and hard to folk and glam, rock music is the heartstring that ties me to my parents. Music was a form of love in my house, with some of the best nights consisting of us three sitting in front of the TV, requesting songs to be played on YouTube.
My parents met in 1991 at work for a construction company called Jacobs Engineering in Pasadena. But on May 29, 1983, Heavy Metal Sunday of the US Festival was well underway in San Bernardino, and my parents, who wouldn’t meet for another eight years, were both in attendance.
My mom went with her friend and heavy-metal-band bassist boyfriend, while my dad had convinced some of his fellow shipmates to drive over 400 miles from their naval station in Vallejo to see the highly-anticipated show.
The thought of them both head banging and dancing to Ozzy Osborne and Van Halen and then teaching their daughter 20 years later to do the same makes me love them even more.
Moral of the story: my parents rock.
Megan and her parents at Greta Van Fleet in Sacramento, just two days after seeing Foreigner in Las Vegas this past spring. Photo by Karen Poquette.
As the only child of these two concert-going lovebirds, I had no other choice growing up than to be dragged to the various rock shows they attended on weekends. If it wasn’t a gig for one of their closest friends' various cover bands, it was to see some of their favorite rock and blues artists whose music molded me into the person I am today.
I was 4-years-old at my first concert. I’m told we saw Jackson Browne Band and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. To this day, I am still slightly frustrated with 4-year-old me for not paying a little more attention during this show as both artists have become some of my favorites.
It was at a Steve Miller concert during the song “Swingtown” when I was 9 that I learned the valuable life lesson of dancing like nobody's watching.
My parents can attest to the true extent of my shyness as a kid, from not being able to order at restaurants to turning red and shedding tears when any attention was called to me.
But all that bashfulness was washed away when that addictive drum and bass line with those ascending harmonies hit my ears. I recall grabbing the hand of my mom’s best friend, known to me as Auntie Cora, and pulling her out onto the concrete steps of the Concord Pavillion to let the music groove us.
“You always were one of the youngest people at the concerts we took you to,” said my mom, recounting the multitudes of melodic memories.
It’s true. I can recall up until about age 16 playing the game of ‘try to find someone in the crowd younger than Megan’ with my parents at any given concert.
And I often won this game.
At concerts for blues and rock music greats like Elvin Bishop and Three Dog Night, I won by at least 40 years. But despite these crowds being full of geezers, they sure knew how to rock, and certainly loved teaching the tiny, shy blonde girl in the crowd how to rock too.
Megan and her mom, Karen, posing with Earth, Wind & Fire, headlined by Santana in June 2022; a concert they mutually agree is the best show they have ever been to. Photo by Karen Poquette.
From falling asleep during the Eagles when I was 7, to being sung to by the lead singer of my parents and I’s favorite blues bands Kenny Wayne Shepherd (I kid you not I’ve seen him live six times) when I was 12, my childhood is less defined by years and more by setlists.
Moving away from home is not always easy. Especially as an only child, leaving my parents had me feeling like a baby bird excited to finally take flight, only to realize it had no clue how to fly.
But freshman year, when my friend asked me on our walk back to the dorms if I wanted to go see Amine live that night, I could almost hear the spark of joy ignite inside me.
The feeling of being in a room overflowing with hundreds of strangers all chanting the lyrics to mutually beloved songs is truly indescribable. The whole room beats like a heart, pulsing with the kick of the beat that everyone feels pumping in their chests.
I have my parents to thank for my everlasting addiction to that feeling; there is a needy fire burning inside me and live music fuels it.
The marquee for one of the many Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band concerts the Poquettes attended at the Crest Theatre in Sacramento. Photo by Karen Poquette.
“Concerts are events where people can be uninhibited, you can just be yourself and enjoy the music with others,” said my dad when I asked him to describe that feeling we’ve always chased.
One performance that truly exemplified that feeling for me was seeing Sabrina Carpenter at the iconic Greek Theatre in Los Angeles during her ‘emails i can’t send’ tour.
Taking a break from somehow simultaneously screaming, crying, and singing along to the lyrics I loved, I looked up at the crowd from my ground floor seat that my butt never touched and saw the moving sea of dancing people mimicking the twinkling stars in the sky.
An overwhelming stream of emotions came over me. I felt as though the entire crowd had vanished and my parents were looking down at me from the stars, doting at the sight of me enjoying myself in the way they taught me to best.
That confusing combination of solitude and solace I felt that night had haunted me up until recently, when my mom told me that she became a member of the Greek Theatre in college and attended no less than six concerts a year there.
“The Greek is magical,” she said, and suddenly it all made sense.
Moving to Southern California from Sacramento for college was a decision full of unknowns, but the opportunity this decision has granted me to attend concerts in the cities where my parents once did the same has brought me such a peaceful, easy feeling.
Megan and her friend’s colorful friendship bracelets from Taylor Swift’s The Eras Tour at Sofi Stadium. Photo by Megan Poquette.
At this point, I have easily been to 40 concerts and counting. My mom and I share the sentiment that if we don’t have concert tickets in our wallets at any given time, then something isn’t right with the world.
From seeing Harry Styles at The Forum twice and checking a Taylor Swift concert off of my bucket list, to attending countless other shows for smaller artists at intimate venues, I am eternally grateful for my parents and the loving gift they have given me of appreciation for live music.
Two tickets to see the glittery girl pop artist Chappell Roan at the Wiltern are currently burning holes in my pockets, and I await with the utmost anticipation to dance with the crowd and sense that sweet, nostalgic scent of Barney’s Record store that lingers in my mind and feels like a hug from my parents whenever melodic memories are made.