Cats in the Cradle because it makes me think of my husband and his father.
Sounds of Silence because it makes me think of when my 48-year old uncle died of early-onset Alzheimers 3 years ago. A vibrant, funny, active, loving man plunged into mental darkness within the span of 4 short years.
Anything by Jim Croce. I got Photographs and Memories for Christmas, and I don’t know whether it’s because I think of him dying so young and leaving behind his baby son, or because his songs speak to me now that I have a baby son of my own, but I’m reduced to tears every time I play his music. Well, except for maybe Roller Derby Queen and You Don’t Mess Around With Jim.
This is a little embarrassing to admit, but I used to sing “You Are My Sunshine” to my cat. She died in August, and I haven’t been able to hear (or sing) that song with a dry eye since…
The last verse of Simon & Garfunkel’s The Boxer usually chokes me up a little. Don’t know why.
There’s a couple of country songs that do it for me. The aforementioned Travelin’ Soldier, and Alan Jackson’s Monday Morning Church do it. There’s a Brad Paisley/Allison Kraus duet called Whiskey Lullaby that is a sad song in its own right, but with Allison Kraus’s voice on it, it just gets that much worse. That woman could probably sing Zippidy Doo-Dah and make me cry. A heart-breakingly beautiful voice on that woman.
Colin Raye’s, “Love, Me,” makes me cry just thinking about the lyrics. Unfortunately, it makes my wife cry too, so if we’re in the car together and it comes on the radio, it’s a bad, bad thing.
I love the vocals on this version, but I feel like the guitar part could be fleshed out a LOT more. It’s just the same rhythm chords all through it, no variations, nothin’. I like the version a lot, but I wish I could get over the guitar line.
Symphony No 3 by Henryk Górecki. Close the door, turn out the lights, put on the headphones, and lose yourself for one really emotionally draining hour.
Most of Crowded House’s CD Together Alone.
Some songs by Loreena McKennitt: Bonny Portmore, Annachie Gordon, Full Circle.